James’s body jerked as if stung from behind. Although the gunshot had to have come first, Thomas hadn’t heard it. It was only the violent jolt that caught his attention. James collapsed. To his knees first, then further down with one palm in the mulch as his other hand grasped for his chest. The rifle lay beside him, illuminating James’s face—it read of pain and knowing death.
The men reacted swiftly, cutting their lights and taking cover within the trees.
“Find him!” Thomas shouted.
A team of four stole for the bathrooms, and Thomas went for James, but another shot ripped half of one of the columns from the gazebo and forced Thomas to the decking. Hang in there, damn it. This isn’t the end for you. He watched as James lay in the mulch, taking painful breaths from only yards away. Thomas tried to get to James, but with each careful lurch forward another shot would send him back to the floor. All he could do was listen as each breath became shorter than the last. It took everything within him not to run for James.
“Find where it’s coming from, damn it!”
“Bathrooms are clear!”
From up the drive, Thomas saw a light—not a beam from a flashlight or from fire that had spread, but slightly dull and fixed. He tried to discern exactly from what or where it came, but it shut off seconds later. What the hell was th— The trucks! Thomas came to a knee, then to his feet. There was no shot to curl him back onto the floor.
“He’s at the trucks!” Thomas shouted before sprinting to James, taking to his side, but he wasn’t there. He had already passed. His brown eyes lost within the stars above. “I’ll be back for you,” Thomas whispered. He spun for that light in the distance, clutching his rifle in a death grip.
At some point through the chaos, the Butcher had made his move. Thomas knew the man’s pride wouldn’t have allowed him to leave his goods—what he probably viewed as his right. The women were gone. He would have to have something in his hands when he returned home. But why now? Why not lay low? It made no sense, but of course pride made people do foolish things. To go down in a blaze of glory was what made some men heroes.
The U-Haul’s engine kicked on, and the rattle of gunfire responded. The truck barreled down the drive, accelerating while the engine groaned from the pedal being kicked through the floorboard. Flashes of gunfire from the wood line were met with a furious response from the cab of the truck—that booming, mechanical trill of an AK-47.
Thomas lined up with the last bend in the road. The windshield would be straight on, ensuring he would have a few shots at his target. With little time to think, he banged the rifle into the nook of his shoulder and laid himself directly in its path, the angle projecting a clear shot where the truck would be. The headlights! He snatched the night vision scope from the rail. It would have to be raw sight alignment. He began to take the slack out of the trigger as the truck approached. The sights aligned, front into rear. He exhaled, pushing everything he had from his lungs. Here it comes! Make it count. No more failures. Hold… Hold…
He could hear the cargo in the back of the truck banging as it negotiated the bend in the drive, turning straight toward Thomas as he lay in wait. Here it is! Clear shots and he took them. Quick presses, aggressive pulls of the trigger toward the back. Fragments of glass dissipated into the air as the windshield splintered in response to the rounds piercing it, penetrating the cab.
There was no more turning of the wheel—it held, barreling straight for Thomas—the operator now seemingly inanimate as the truck no longer responded to any change in direction of the street. Thomas rolled from his position and the truck stumbled, rocking with its weighted suspension over the unevenness of the ground. A loud bang followed by the snapping of a tree—its branches bracing for its anticipated fall to earth.
Thomas rose to his feet, the rifle guiding him to the vehicle. The truck smoked heavily from its front end. A loud buzzing noise. The impact jarred the electronics, leaving the lights on from inside the cab.
From the rear of the truck, through the side mirror he could see spatters of blood. The muzzle of the AK rested against the door frame, protruding from inside. Thomas approached, snatched the rifle and pulled hard, throwing it to the ground. A quick glance inside. The Butcher lay on the cushioned seat, his suit ravaged and bloody.
“The world has always had places like this—” the Butcher coughed. “Needs places like this. People need to act out their darkest secrets.”
“You’re sick!” Thomas popped the door open and jerked him from the vehicle. He fell limply against the dirt. The Butcher put his hands up to show he wasn’t armed. Thomas pulled his sidearm and aimed squarely at his face. No turning back! This is who you are now!
“Hold on! Just…” The Butcher ran one of his hands through his hair. “I’m ready for—”
Chapter Eleven
A blanket of clouds had been pulled across the sky—the sun noticeably absent in the east. Colors that normally accompany the twilight hours gave up today, leaving only gray—a somber mix of two extremes. Black and White. New life and death. Celebration and mourning. Indeed gray as Thomas stood motionless in a fog of sleep depravity and quiet reflection. And as others took to warming themselves in the glow of a fire, he chose to stay with James.
Throughout the night, many of the Soldiers came and went from his side in between bouts of sleep and work. Every word of sympathy was met with silence, reducing these brief exchanges to consoling pats upon Thomas’s shoulder. The ones that chose to give him his space stood nearby, quiet, frowning with their heads drooped into their chests. Each man would deal with it in their own way.
There would be no rays of sunshine to thaw their hearts. In this chilled silence, Thomas gathered his thoughts, appreciating James for what he was and what he wasn’t. He couldn’t help but consider that it might be best to keep his heart frozen. It was the thawing out that hurt—that coming to terms with the loss. I should’ve never let him go through with this. His head wasn’t in it from the start. I knew this was a damned mistake.
An engine groaned, and one of the Butcher’s trucks crept into the center of camp—Riley and Krenshaw stepped out. They dropped the tailgate and slid two bodies onto the pavement. The two of them smiled while looking over the bodies strewn about. “Pretty sure that’s the lot of them,” Riley said while dusting his hands off.
“Just waiting on the women now.”
Thomas took his eyes back to James. Death should be easy by now, right? You’d think that, but I guess it depends on who deserves it. He looked to the dead lying about—brought here in haste and thrown down without care. They deserved it. More will deserve it. He wiped from the corners of his mouth then scratched his chin. It’ll get easier… He knelt down. “You shouldn’t have been here,” he spoke under his breath while crossing James’s arms over his chest. He did his best to hide the wound and blood absorbed into his clothing. James appeared at peace—his eyes closed, his body still.
“You doing okay?” Riley approached, dragging the full length of one of the surviving tents behind him.
“Yeah, definitely,” Thomas lied.
“I’ll take care of it.” Riley bedded down the nearby grass by spreading out the tent.
“Not by yourself.” Thomas grabbed the other end and evened it out. “You ready?”
“Are you?” Riley’s eyes showed concern, but Thomas ignored him.