Kristen Simmons - Article 5

“A first-aid kit and a tent. Some dehydrated food that the rats didn’t get.”

I cringed and shoved the extra folded clothes, along with my reformatory sweater, under the flap. He fastened a bulging sleeping bag around the bottom of the sack without once looking up at me.

“We should go,” he said, throwing the backpack over his shoulders.

I didn’t have a watch, but I guessed that it was probably about eight. The checkpoint was still almost two hours away.

Outside, the parking lot was still vacant. I didn’t know why I thought it might not be. The high clouds from the morning were pressing lower and had grown pewter since we’d entered the store. The air, which smelled faintly of sulfur, had a chilly, electric feel.

I followed Chase around the outside of the building and nearly slammed into him when he stopped abruptly.

My body reeled, sensing the danger from Chase before I saw it for myself.

There were two men outside our truck. One was in his late twenties, with unkempt black hair and a hooked nose. He wore a gray hooded sweatshirt and baggy camo pants. A hunting rifle was cocked over his left shoulder. The other man was halfway into the cab of the truck; I saw the dirty skater shoes sticking out beneath the driver’s side door.

“Rick, hey!” hissed the first man. He swung the rifle toward us in a wide, sweeping arc and butted it against his shoulder. I heard the fateful click as he chambered a round.

My heart stopped. Guns were contraband for civilians and had been since the War. Only the MM carried them.

Or AWOL soldiers. Which I was pretty sure they weren’t.

The man I took to be Rick emerged from the vehicle. He was tall, not as tall as Chase but still a head above me. He was thick, too; even through his capacious clothing I could tell he was muscular. His muddy hair was long to his shoulders, and he tossed it back with a flip of his head. There was an eager expression on his face.

“Morning, brother,” Rick called out.

Chase said nothing. His face was as hard as steel.

“Maybe he’s deaf,” said the other man.

“You deaf?” asked Rick.

“No,” Chase answered.

“It’s been too long since you were around people then, brother. When someone says ‘Good morning,’ you’re supposed to respond back.”

“I don’t make small talk when someone’s pointing a rifle at my chest.” Chase’s tone was low, very controlled. “And I’m not your brother.”

Rick looked to his friend, then back to us. I noticed that their skin, and even their eyes, held a yellow tint, which clashed against the gray sky and the gray ash.

“Stan, you’re not making our friends very comfortable.”

Stan chuckled but did not lower the weapon. The hair on the back of my neck prickled.

Rick turned his attention to me. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

My hands squeezed the jacket in my arms. I didn’t respond, trying to think fast. I might be able to reach the gun in Chase’s bag, but not without drawing the attention of the rifle carrier.

“See, Stan, you scared the poor thing.”

Rick stepped forward. Chase shifted deliberately in front of me, and Rick smirked.

“Oh, don’t be stingy, brother. Didn’t your mama teach you to share?”

Stan was laughing raucously behind him. I couldn’t swallow. My throat felt very thick.

Chase took a step toward the truck. I clung to his shirttail.

“Whoa now. Where you going?” Rick swaggered closer.

“We’re leaving,” Chase said with authority.

“ You’re leaving. But not both of you.”

“I’m not going with you!” The words leapt from my throat. Chase stiffened.

“Ooh, she’s feisty!” Rick said, as though this was a delicious quality. I remembered how Randolph had groped me and called me “trash.”

Chase shifted his weight. Swiftly, Rick’s hand shot behind his back, reaching for something tucked within his belt. Chase knew exactly where I was without having to look. Roughly, he shoved me back, shielding me completely with his body.

I saw Rick rip the leather case off of a thick, gleaming knife that hooked into a menacing point.

Danger pulsed in my ears. For some reason, the knife scared me more than the rifle had. I couldn’t think why. I couldn’t think anything.

“Leave the pack,” Rick ordered. “I’ll take the keys and the truck.”

“Get in the truck,” Chase told me quietly.

I didn’t know what to do. Chase wouldn’t look at me. He couldn’t possibly think I would leave him here alone against two armed men. Our best chance was together. If they didn’t want me hurt, maybe, maybe, they’d spare him.

He shrugged out of his jacket and backpack, and let them slide to the ground.

“Chase,” I whispered, “I’m not leaving.”

I shouldn’t have said what I did inside the store. Now he was going to try to protect me, to make up for abandoning me before.

“Get in the truck,” he commanded. Stan was approaching us quickly, the gun still pressed against his shoulder. His finger was on the trigger.

“No!” I said forcefully.

“Aw, it’s all right. Daddy will take care of you,” said Rick. Stan laughed.

“Take it easy,” Chase told them, and reached beneath his untucked flannel shirt into his pocket.

“Slowly, brother,” warned Rick.

Both men were close now. They watched Chase’s hands, as did I.

In a flash of movement, Chase tore the black baton from his belt and swung it upward into the double barrel of Stan’s rifle. The metal on metal sandwiched Stan’s fingers, eliciting a howl of pain. The gun clattered to the ground.

Chase used the upward momentum of the baton to cut sideways into Rick’s jaw. Upon impact, the nightstick flew from his hands and cracked against the side of the building. Rick stumbled, then lurched to his feet, barreling toward us, knife first. A flash of terror slashed through me just before I was roughly shoved out of the way. An instant later I heard a tear and a growl, and watched as a crimson line bloomed from Chase’s bicep around the back of his arm. The flannel fabric clung to his damp, bleeding skin.

“Chase!” I screamed, clambering to my feet.

Stan swore, reminding me of his presence. On impulse, I sprinted around him toward the gun, but as quickly as I reached it, he was upon me. His body, heavy and rank with old sweat, arched over my back. I clenched my jaw, and wrapped my fingers around the wooden handle of the rifle. The tender skin of my knuckles scraped against the asphalt.

Stan knotted his fist through my hair and jerked back hard. I cried out as the burn seared across my scalp and ripped away.

When I turned around, I saw that Chase had thrown Stan into the front of the truck. When he fell, Chase kicked him hard in the gut, and Stan collapsed to his knees and forearms, sputtering. I didn’t watch. I picked up the rifle and ran to the truck, stuffing it behind the seat without thinking twice.

I spun back just as Rick — face smeared with the blood that ran like a faucet from his nostrils — hurtled himself onto Chase’s back. Panic raced through me. I could not see the knife.

In a frenzy, I searched the ground, hoping that the weapon wasn’t embedded into Chase’s body, and instead found the nightstick near the front tires, where Stan was still laid out, gasping for breath. I picked it up, prepared to run back to aid Chase, but I was intercepted by Rick, wild-eyed and bloodstained and rabid. He grabbed the collar of my shirt, and heaved me around so fast that I lost my balance. I knew he meant to use me as a shield against Chase.

I swung the baton like a baseball bat in all directions. It connected twice, maybe three times with something solid, but I didn’t know who or what. My cropped hair was streaming around my face, blinding me. Then suddenly, I was flung to the pavement.