Victor Methos - Pestilence

“It’s all right. Pick it up.”

She did.

“Call 9-1-1.”

“No,” she said.

“It’s not a trick. Call 9-1-1. Tell them the make and model of your car, and give them a description of me. I’m serious. Do it.”

“You’ll hurt me.”

“I give you my word. I will not hurt you. Call.”

She looked down at the phone and held her thumb over the keypad for a moment before she dialed the number. It played an error message.

“Try your dad’s cell,” he said.

She called her father’s cell and got a busy signal.

“It’s not working,” she said.

“No, it’s not. So you can put the phone away. You don’t need to hide it from me. Turn right up here.”

She stopped at the intersection and glanced at a group of men on the corner and then at Ian.

“I wouldn’t,” Ian said. “They’ll rob you, rape you, and leave you on the side of the street. I’m not going to do any of those things.”

She swallowed and then turned into a residential neighborhood. The houses were worn down, and the dilapidated chain-link fences with missing sections did a poor job of protecting yellowed lawns. Some lawns were strewn with broken-down cars and parts and some, without any effort to hide it, simply had garbage thrown around. A few of the homes were kept up, though, and dogs were chained near the front doors.

“Stop here.”

She pulled over to the curb and parked. They were in front of a white house with yellow trim that was lit up brightly by two small flood lamps.

“Get out and come with me.”

They stepped out of the car. Ian glanced toward her and then back at the house. She looked down both sides of the street.

“It’s difficult to tell, isn’t it?” he said.

“What is?”

“How far you would get. I’m guessing to that corner right there before the slug exploded your skull.”

“I’m not going to run.”

“Good girl. Come on.”

They walked up the driveway, to the front door. Ian knocked and heard voices inside. The door opened, revealing an elderly man.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m looking for Wendy.”

“And who are you?”

“LAPD, sir. Is she here?”

“Lemme see a badge.”

“Sure thing.” Ian reached into his suit coat and came out with the pistol. He fired into the man’s eye, and he collapsed without a peep. Katherine screamed, but Ian covered her mouth and dragged her into the house, then shut the door behind them. He heard footsteps in the kitchen, along with a woman’s voice. “Robert, who’s here at this-”

A woman came around the corner and stopped when she saw the gun in Ian’s hand. He lifted it and fired three rounds into her chest. She flew against the refrigerator, leaving smears of blood on it as she slid down to the linoleum. He walked up to her while Katherine screamed behind him and fired another two into the top of her head.

“Let’s go.” He grabbed Katherine’s arm and pulled her out of the house.

At midnight, Howie said goodnight to Sandy and then checked on his daughter. She was asleep in bed, with her earbuds still blaring music. He walked over and gently turned off the iPod and removed the earbuds. She stirred, and her hand went over his. Its softness reminded him of when she was much younger. When she was frightened, she would crawl in between him and her mother without saying a word, hoping they wouldn’t wake up and kick her out to her own room.

Her sneaking into bed woke Howie every time, but he never said anything.

A pain shot through his gut, and he didn’t know why. He left his hand there for a moment before pulling away. He went upstairs to his bedroom and showered to rinse off the hot-tub chlorine, then changed into gym shorts and a T-shirt.

He lay on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling a long time, and found himself drifting off to sleep, but the thought of his daughter continued to intrude on his peace. He exhaled and closed his eyes. Before long, his thoughts dimmed, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Howie wasn’t sure what woke him, but he knew the sounds instantly once he was awake: men shouting and metal grinding on metal. He thought some neighbors were drunk and out causing trouble, but the noises were so loud, and there were so many men shouting, that unless the entire neighborhood was outside right then, it couldn’t have been that.

He went downstairs, to the window in the living room. Looking out, he saw something he would never forget for the rest of his life.

Humvees were rolling down the street, interspersed with jeeps. Both were painted in camo browns and beige. Soldiers were there, too, or what he guessed were soldiers. They were knocking on every door, and if the door didn’t open quickly enough, they kicked it down.

So many soldiers were crowded into the streets that it looked like a concert or a football game going on right outside his house. They were dragging people out in their pajamas, and some only had on underwear. One of his neighbors was hauled out of his house and thrown into a military truck.

Someone pounded on his front door. His heart seemed to stop, and he stared at the door as if it were something from another planet.

“National Guard, open the door!”

The door upstairs opened, and his daughter came down. “Who is that?”

Just as the words left her lips, the door exploded inward. His alarm went off as three National Guardsmen stormed in while Jessica was screaming. They grabbed him by the arms, but he didn’t fight until one of them grabbed his daughter.

All three were wearing slim gas masks.

He pulled his arms away and swung at one, connecting with his jaw and sending him back. Then he felt an explosive force against the back of his head, and he was out.

The bouncing brought him around as the military truck rattled down the interstate. Howie came to and looked around. He was lying flat on his back. People were crammed into the truck on seats that lined the truck bed. Next to him, Jessica sat on Sandy’s lap.

“Howie,” Sandy said. She slipped Jessica off and bent over him. “Don’t move. You took a nasty blow to the head.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Lay back. Take it easy. Let me look at your head.” She reached back and then brought out her fingers. “It’s not bleeding. How do you feel?”

His head pounded so hard it was giving him a migraine. Slowly, he sat up. The other people on the truck looked terrified and weren’t talking. Behind them on the interstate was a line of Humvees, jeeps, and trucks. Several choppers, maybe as many as a dozen, flew above them.

“Sandy, what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know.”

The ride was slow because the interstate was bumper to bumper with military vehicles. Civilian cars, which were empty, many of them with their doors open, were pulled over to the side of the road. He looked back to the cabin of the truck and saw a glass partition between him and the single guardsman who was driving.

Howie pounded on the glass, but the driver didn’t turn around.

“Sit down,” someone said. Howie turned to him. A middle-aged man in a tank top and boxer shorts caught his glare. “They’ll put you out with tranqs if they see you getting upset. They did that to me. Sit down.”

“Who are these people?”

“Army and National Guard. Now sit down before they tranq all of us.”

Howie squeezed in between Sandy and the woman next to her. He was dizzy from the blow to his head, and when he glanced down, he noticed for the first time that he was in gym shorts.

“I was in bed,” Sandy said, “and two men ran into my room. I started screaming, and they pulled me out of bed and threw a sweatshirt at me that was on the floor. They pulled me out and stuck me here. When I got in, Jessica was standing over you, and you were unconscious.”