Patrick D'Orazio: Into the Dark

When Jeff lifted his head, he saw six of them, as he had correctly calculated. His gaze circulated around the group, locking on the man who was clearly the leader. Unlike the rest of his small troop, he was decked out in camouflage. It looked more like surplus than standard military issue, but the man wore it well. Rugged black boots completed his forest-green ensemble.

He cut an impressive figure. He was about the same height as George, but slender, not stocky. Fit and muscular, he looked young, perhaps in his late twenties. His dark hair was neatly groomed, and he was clean shaven, unlike the rest of the group. He was handsome, with a strong jaw, well-defined cheekbones, and a twinkle in his eyes. Jeff could see no scars or defects and, more importantly, the leader of the other group did not have the hollowed-out look everyone seemed to acquire as a fringe benefit of being a survivor.

For all the physical traits that distinguished him from the others, it was something else about him that drew the eye. He was the one carrying the M16 that had been pointed at them earlier. Currently, it was slung across his back.

The man raised his hand in greeting, a smile creasing his face as he looked over the little ragtag quartet. “The name’s Michael. I’m the leader here.” He spoke with confidence as he turned to the others surrounding him. “Let me introduce you to my men.”

Frank and Marcus were good ol’ country boys, toting shotguns and spitting tobacco in a constant brown stream that stuck to their ragged beards, and both were leaning against the van they had just ransacked. A looked passed between Michael and his two henchmen, and the duo forced smiles onto their faces, though their eyes were filled with mistrust for the newcomers.

They wore dirty jeans and ripped t-shirts that looked like they had been worn for years. Their hair and beards were a wooly mess. Frank had a sizeable beer gut while Marcus, the shorter of the two, was reedy with a darker complexion. They mumbled and laughed at each other as Michael introduced the rest of his crew.

Ray and Teddy, the two teenagers, had their weapons aimed in Jeff and George’s direction. They ignored Jason and Megan, despite the fact that she had been the one with the.357 Magnum. Their guns were pointed at the ground, but it was clear they were still nervous about the newcomers.

Ray carried a 9mm Beretta and seemed less than comfortable with it. The hand holding the gun bounced against his leg constantly. He was a pimply-faced kid who was perhaps sixteen. His feeble attempt at growing a beard had resulted in swirls of hairs sticking out of red welts at random spots along his jaw line. His flat, dull brown mop of hair was thick and covered his ears. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses poked out of the mess and kept sliding down the bridge of his nose. He absently pushed them up repeatedly and wiped away the sweat glistening on his face in between each attempt. His poorly chosen wardrobe was responsible for the excessive moisture. An oversized pea-green jacket covered his chubby frame. His choice of bright red sneakers made it clear he had not been going for the camouflaged look.

Teddy was slightly less agitated, but perhaps it was because his weapon, a rifle, was too heavy for him to maneuver easily. He grasped it awkwardly, holding it as if he were standing at attention. His arms would slump downward as they grew weary, and after a few seconds of rest, he would stand at attention once again. He was smaller and perhaps younger than Ray, but it was hard to tell. He was maybe an inch or two less than five and a half feet tall and could not weigh more than a hundred pounds. Like a lot of smaller kids his age, he seemed to have energy to burn, and one of his legs performed a spastic dance as if he were waiting for a starter gun to go off. Though he was hyped up, his eyes were steady. Ray’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men in front of him, but Teddy’s gaze never left George, his target.

That left Ben. Even George couldn’t compare to “Big” Ben for sheer bulk. He appeared to be the one least concerned about the new group. Michael ordered him to sort through the van and do an inventory. He quietly went about the assigned task without complaint. The van groaned in protest and dipped a couple of inches closer to the ground every time he slid inside.

Ben was a giant of a man, likely tipping the scales at well over three hundred pounds of what looked like mostly muscle, and was more than six and a half feet tall. He had a sizeable gut, but even that looked intimidating. He was also quiet. As Michael introduced him, he nodded but did not speak. Once the introductions were made, he went back to the business of cataloguing the goods in the van.

“It’s regrettable that we had to be so rough, but desperate times… ” Michael gave a little shrug, which made it clear that Jeff and the others should expect no more of an apology. The two rifles Jeff’s group had commandeered from Fred and Bobby were slung on the backs of Frank and Marcus, and Frank also had Megan’s.357 tucked into his belt.

They heard a sound from the van and saw that Ben was pulling the removable middle row of seats out and tossing them to the pavement. The inventory of the van continued as Michael waited, smiling.

His eyes moved smoothly from Jeff to George and then to Megan. They lingered there, and he gave her a smile. She responded with a dark glare. Michael broke eye contact with her, and his gaze traveled back to George, where it hovered expectantly. Jeff glanced at his friend and saw he looked almost ill, as if the stare of the other man were causing him physical distress. George’s eyes dropped quickly.

“Well, I guess we can understand the need to make sure we’re not psychos or maniacs. No worries on that account,” Jeff piped up. He smiled as Michael’s eyes moved over to him.

The chisel-jawed man scanned Jeff up and down. After a moment, his smile grew brighter than ever as he nodded, recognizing Jeff as the official spokesman for his group.

“Well, why don’t you introduce yourselves, and then let’s get off this road to a safer area. We have a camp about a mile south of here in the woods.” Michael stared at Jeff expectantly, and suddenly all eyes were upon him.

George and Megan did not protest when Jeff started the introductions with Jason, who nodded shyly at Michael. He looked less nervous than the two teenagers, but when Michael grinned and shook his hand, appreciation bloomed on the kid’s face. It was obvious he liked being treated like an adult.

Jeff introduced George next. A dark expression that might have been contempt passed over Michael’s face as he moved closer to the group’s oldest member. It was gone in an instant, but Jeff thought he had seen it. Michael’s dazzling smile was back in place too quickly to be sure.

He saved Megan for last. Seeing the expression on her face, Jeff tensed as he made the introduction.

“And this is Megan.”

Michael’s hand came out, and his killer smile shone down on the diminutive woman.

“It’s a privilege, ma’am. Please accept my sincerest apology for how my men acted. I especially regret how you were treated.”

The slap sounded like a small firecracker going off. Michael’s face twisted to the side, and his hand flew up to touch the spot where he had been hit. He stared at Megan in shock.

Frank hooted with laughter, but the short braying sound cut off as Michael glared at him. No one else spoke, and expressions ran the gamut of shocked disbelief to chagrin.

Megan moved in for the kill.

“Fuck you and your apology. You drag us out of our car and take our things, and you’re sorry? Your limp-wristed stooge shoves a shotgun to the back of my friend’s head and does his best to humiliate us, and you’re goddamned sorry? Screw you!”