Linda Andrews - The Meltdown

“Roger that,” Robertson interrupted his humming to answer. “Holy shit!”

He aimed straight then right as he stepped into the hallway. The dog snaked around his legs, sniffed the ground and then the air, then the ground again. Boxes crammed the space, reducing the aisle from six-feet wide to two. They’d stolen all the ready-to-eat meals. God knew where the medicine had gone.

“We’re clear of the bleachers,” Vegas spoke just as a gunshot echoed through his mic.

David’s heart stilled, but his body kept moving to the right and the wing of classrooms. “Report!”

The dog stared at the corridor where Ray and Janovich searched.

The sound of heavy breathing amplified inside his ear.

“That’s right, you beautiful ladies.” Robertson laughed. “You kill the bastards that kept you in there.”

Michaelson chuckled. “You can stop cowering, Vegas and Singleton. The women are taking care of the last three targets.”

He cleared the classroom on the right, while Folger worked on the left side. Only the scent of floor cleaner stirred in the empty space. Where were the desks and chairs?

“Oh! Did you see that?” Robertson gasped and another gunshot rattled the window. “She shot another one.”

“He’s not dead.” Vegas huffed. “She shot his dick off.”

“Damn, remind me not to piss that one off.”

“Ma’am? Ma’am?” Vegas raised his voice on the last word. “Can you put the gun down?”

David finished his sweep of the classrooms. Empty. All of them. “Someone ask them how many bastards there were.”

After meeting with Folger in the corridor, they headed back to the entrance. Ray and Janovich were three-quarters of the way down the hallway. The dog darted ahead before stopping at the last classroom. He laid down on the floor and stared at the door.

“Yes, Ma’am. We’re here to help.” Vegas kept his voice monotone. “Could you give me the weapon? The weapon… Thank you.”

He jogged past the open doors of the rooms his men had already cleared. Beds sat in the center of the rooms. He didn’t want to know what the assholes had done with the blood-stained ropes, chains and belts that lay like dead serpents on the white floor.

“We got a locked one, Sergeant-Major.” Ray stood outside the second to last classroom on the north side. Behind him, Janovich aimed his M-4 at the faux wooden door.

“There seems to be a consensus that there’s twenty-five bad…” Vegas caught himself, “bad guys.”

David added up the numbers in his head. They’d eliminated thirty-six targets so far. The math was off. Either some had kept hidden or they’d added a few new recruits—bad apples had a way of spoiling the whole bushel.

“Roger that.” They would have to search the rest of the grounds. He glanced at the dog and knew exactly where to start. Nudging Ray to the side, he waited for the other two to take their positions then kicked the door open. His knee twinged at the impact. Girls squealed when the door banged against the wall.

Slim young bodies in adult satin collapsed against the wall. Metal clanked as they slid like beads on a string along the chain that held them in place. They cowered in a heap in the corner farthest from him.

After scanning the empty room, David removed his finger from the trigger and lowered his weapon. “Just hold on girls, and we’ll get you out of here.”

Folgers blushed.

“We’ll finish this floor.” With one shot, Janovich popped the loop bolting the chain to the wall, then turned on his heel and left. Folgers dashed out on his heels.

The girls looked at him, then at the chain, then back at him again. Great. Statues. “Slide the chain off then line up in twos behind me. We’ll remove the handcuffs once we get back to camp.”

The first girl in the line stood frozen. The dog loped into the room and bumped her leg. With his nose, he nudged her hand atop his head. She blinked.

The second one eased the chain from their handcuffs and set her hand on the statue’s back. “It’s a dog!”

“That’s good. Help each other follow the dog. He’s a nice doggie.” The German shepherd accompanied him to the door. The girls shuffled behind him. Pausing, he peered into the hallway. Folgers stood near the exit. He waved the dog onward. “Robertson, radio the convoy. We need transport. At least four trucks and medics wouldn’t hurt either.”

What could God have been thinking? Papa Rose threaded the end of the blue rope through the belt loop and drew it tight. He should never be trusted with the lives of innocents. Wasn’t he responsible for the deaths of his own children and step-children? His gut twisted.

Brainiac stood between the back of the empty tanker and the corner of the convenience store. Rain spotted his Navy peacoat, whittling away the ex-sailor’s skinny frame. Water dripped off his nose, ears and hair but he didn’t budge from his post. His finger rested alongside the M-4 cutting across his middle. “Don’t use all my soap now.”

“I won’t.” Jillie, the preteen girl they’d found in the convenience store, shivered fully clothed under the water pouring through the down spout and washed the blood from her hair. “Geez, you’ve already told me twice.”

“Yeah, well.” Brainiac glanced at her before scanning the street. “If you’re like my sister, you don’t always listen.”

“Is she with you? Your sister?”

“Nah.” Brainiac turned his face up the falling rain. “She worked at Burgers in a Basket.”

Brothers. Sisters. Family. Tune them out. Focus on what you’re doing . Papa Rose’s fingers trembled as he looped the ends of the rope over each other. At least, he didn’t have anything to do with the anthrax attack. He tugged on the rope, gathering the waistband of the baggy pants. “Say when.”

The preschooler standing in front of him giggled, wiggled and sucked in his flat stomach. Ribs created waves on his flesh and baby teeth gleamed white in his tan face.

Christ, there wasn’t an ounce of spare meat on the kid. Papa Rose stopped pulling and waited for the little boy to relax. “You’re ticklish, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you remember your name?” Were your parents one of the slaughtered masses in the convenience store behind them where Falcon scrounged among the remains of the dead, looking for something these two could use ? He kept his tongue still. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t interrogate a three-year-old. Hooking the waistband, he tamed the wiggling kid and waited.

“Toby.” The little boy stuck his thumb in his mouth. His cheeks collapsed as he sucked hard on it.

“Nice to meet you, Toby.” Papa Rose quickly knotted the rope, careful to avoid touching his ticklish tummy. “I’m Papa Rose.”

Spittle clung to his thumb when Toby removed it from his mouth with a pop. “That’s a girl’s name.”

He smiled. The stiff muscles tightened across his scalp. People like him didn’t deserve to ever smile again. “Do I look like a girl to you?”

“No.” Toby shook his head. His blue eyes widened. “That’s silly. You’re a boy.”

“That’s right.” He bit his tongue. No way would he say his real name. That man was dead, like the family he murdered. He just had to find someone to take care of these two so he could die like he should have.

Like he deserved.

He scratched his fingers over his bald head, used the furrows of pain to concentrate. These two children deserved better than having him look after them.

A cold wind whistled through the gas pumps, rattling the metal handles in their holders. Shivering, Toby crossed his arms over his chest. His teeth began to chatter.

“Cold, huh?” Papa Rose shrugged out of his jacket. The breeze penetrated his tee-shirt and needled his skin.