Valley of Vengeance: Book Five in The Borrowed World Series Page 5

  Pat came around the table and put her arm around her daughter. “I love you, Alice. I’m proud of what you’ve become in life. I just want you to know that you all can leave if you want to. I wouldn’t be mad and I wouldn’t blame you. If you aren’t comfortable having your family here, then you all can go stay with your friends. I’ve been tending this farm by myself and I can still do it.”

  Alice’s eyes moved between her mother’s hands and her face. “We won’t leave you, Mom,” Alice said. “We’ll try to make it work.”

  Terry reached over and patted Alice on the back. “I think your mom’s probably right, honey. We just need to get ourselves organized a little better and we can get through this. It’s like one of those crazy ice storms that paralyzes everything. Eventually the power will come back on and people will start acting right again. This will all become a memory.”

  Alice looked in her husband’s eyes. He believed every word he’d said, just as she had when she and Jim parted ways in the dark hotel on the interstate. At that time she believed everything would be fine too. She believed FEMA would get her home. She believed life would return to normal. Now she knew better.

  Chapter 8

  Alice

  Near Alice and Terry’s home there was a country church by the roadside. The poplar clapboards were stark white and there was a galvanized metal roof that was beginning to show rust at the seams. At one corner of the roof was a bell tower with an actual brass bell instead of the more modern system of a speaker that played a recording of bells. There was no air conditioning and on warm evenings the minister opened the windows and doors to allow the cooler air in. From her house, Alice could hear the sound of the congregation singing on those nights. It seemed an odd contrast to her, to be sitting on the porch outside her modern home, using a tablet with a Wi-Fi connection while listening to old Baptist hymns sung without piano or organ accompaniment, just as they may have been sung a hundred or even two hundred years ago.

  Alice pulled off the two-lane road and into the church parking lot, her headlights not finding another soul. She cut the lights and used the moonlight to park the vehicle behind the church. She turned the engine off and listened. She allowed her ears to adjust to the night the same way her eyes would. She wanted to be as certain as she could that no one was nearby.

  She dug into her Go Bag and pulled out a flashlight, tucking it into her pocket. She unfastened her belt, pulled it free of a few loops, and threaded on a Buck hunting knife that she’d gotten from her father’s dresser. It had been in the same place where he’d always kept it, her mom treating his things with too much reverence to ever move them, as if they contained a magic that would be broken if she disturbed them. Alice knew the black-handled knife was razor sharp. Her dad skinned deer with it. She knew what it could do in a determined and steady hand.

  She opened her car door as carefully as possible, trying to minimize the groaning of the hinges, closing it just as carefully. She wanted to lock the car but it was pointless with so many windows broken out. Knowing that it would be best to have both hands free when walking on unfamiliar terrain in the dark, she tucked the revolver into her waistband and started off.

  She knew from her son’s explorations of the neighborhood that there was a trail leading from their street to the church. In the summer, with everything leafed-out, you’d never see it. When the leaves fell, the steeple of the church was visible from the master bedroom of her home.

  She walked carefully, feeling her way along with her feet. She didn’t want to fall. Not because of fear of getting hurt but because she didn’t want to make any noise. With the nights warm and no air conditioning available, people would probably have windows open. After a few minutes of determined walking she emerged from the woods, leaving the rich blackness of the forest for the pale silver of the moonlit neighborhood.

  According to the car clock, it was nearly 1 a.m. when she parked. With no power and no electronic distractions most people would be asleep unless they were standing guard. In the far distance, at the entrance to their subdivision, Alice could indeed see a bonfire going. She couldn’t see anything in detail, but assumed that men still stood guard there just as they had when she came in. They would be a nervous lot, uncertain as to what awaited them out in the world. She would have to avoid drawing their attention as fearful men might be quick to shoot.

  From the woods, she cut across the dew-soaked grass, her sneakers growing wetter with each step. When she passed her family’s home, she paused and took it in. Without power and without her family inside it seemed lifeless, like a body viewed in a funeral home, merely the husk of what it had once been. She had no desire to go inside and be reminded of how life had been. She moved on, walking through the grass to avoid the sound of scuffing gravel on the asphalt, and stopped in front of her neighbors’ house.

  The boy and his uncle had broken into her house. She was certain of it. They’d made enough looting trips that they’d worn a trail between the two houses. She didn’t like it but she could almost understand it. By taking her husband’s medications, they had handed down a death sentence on him and she couldn’t accept that. She certainly couldn’t prove it was them but who else would have taken it? These were the men who were raiding her house. They were known drug users. This was the place to start.

  As she stood there in the dark, Alice accepted there would likely be a time soon when her husband ran out of medications again. Even if she found what had been stolen it would not be an indefinite supply. All she could hope for was to buy him some time. She hoped that if she could keep him alive she might be able to learn more about the pharmacological mechanisms of the medication and see if there were natural alternatives. If she could find someone knowledgeable about herbs and plants then maybe there was something they could try. Even if it didn’t have the same level of effectiveness as the prescription medication, if it could just keep him alive. That was her hope.

  Besides, there had to be an end to this disaster eventually. While she had to admit it had gotten much worse than she ever expected and people’s behavior had been more along the lines of what her pessimistic coworker Jim had predicted, she did honestly believe there would be a point in the future where it took an upturn. Things would get back to normal one day.

  Yet she hadn’t come all this way to ponder. She was on a mission. She watched the house the two men lived in and saw no lights, no movement through any of the windows. With no power and the difficulty of getting gas, even the scumbags were beginning to feel the pinch. There were some things that even thieves and drug dealers had trouble laying their hands on. She stepped into the tall grass of their yard, feeling an immediate increase in her level of tension. She was in new territory, both literally and figuratively.

  She raised her feet high as she walked to avoid kicking any trash or other debris in the yard, of which there was plenty. She paused when she reached the porch in front of the house and listened again. No sounds at all. There were two brick steps leading up to a porch of brick pavers. Even though she couldn’t see it, she knew there was a cheap black welcome mat on the porch. She also knew that there was a door key beneath it. She’d seen Jake use it many times to get inside the house when he forgotten his house key. She hoped it was still there.

  She lowered herself to her knees, shocked at the loud pops and creaks they emitted, a reminder of her age. She waved her hands lightly against the gritty surface of the bricks, feeling for the mat. When she found it, she carefully rolled back the edge and felt underneath it. She moved her hand in a searching pattern, concerned when she didn’t immediately find it.

  She paused. She wasn’t particularly nervous or scared. She was just impatient and needed to slow down. She willed herself to take her time and began feeling for the key again, moving her hand in a circular pattern this time. She was rewarded with a light clinking sound when her fingers bumped the key.

  Not wanting to lose track of it, she laid her palm flat across it, then used the other hand to pick it
up. She clutched it tightly and stood up, her knees protesting again. With her other hand, she removed her revolver and held it pointed toward the ground. It was not the most tactically proficient stance, but it was how she’d become accustomed to handling her weapon. She was not a trained shooter. She was a reluctant warrior who was learning as she went.

  She stood in front of the door and listened. There was still time to change her mind if anything seemed wrong, but she knew she couldn’t change her mind. How could she go back empty-handed after being this close? With her husband’s pallor and growing weakness, she couldn’t imagine he’d last the month without his medication. This had to happen tonight.

  She took the key and raised it to the lock. With her other hand holding the gun, she felt for the keyhole. That was when she dropped the key, hearing it ring as it bounced off the brick at her feet. She lowered her head and shook it.

  Fuck!

  She struggled to calm herself. This was not a time to rage and curse. She had to stay on-task. Getting angry would not solve the problem.

  She remained still and listened until she was sure no one was alerted. Then she put the gun back in her waistband and knelt down, feeling around with both hands in ever widening circles. She found cigarette butts, the caps from beer bottles, and several sticky clumps of what she thought must be chewed gum. The smell of urine rose strongly from beneath her nose and she realized that the men probably relieved themselves on this porch sometimes. Although this disgusted her, it was too late to worry about that now. She continued to feel around and finally her hand landed on the familiar shape of the key. She sighed with relief.

  This time she used both hands to find the keyhole. She carefully inserted it into the lock, advancing it slowly, feeling it slide past each pin in the cylinder. Only then did she retrieve the revolver from her waistband again. She took a deep breath and turned the key ever so slowly.

  Chapter 9

  Alice

  Jake Fisher was sound asleep, dreaming about playing Frisbee and getting high, when he felt himself being choked awake. It was a sensation so sudden, so violent, that he thought he was going to throw up. He felt himself gagging, felt the sickness rising in his throat. A light clicked on directly in his face and he was blinded. He tried to turn his head away from the light but a sharp pain in his forehead stopped him. He tried to call out but realized there was something in his mouth preventing that. He tried to move his arms but someone was sitting on him. He rocked his body, trying to throw the person off. The pressure on his forehead increased, something cutting into his flesh.

  “Stop moving,” a female voice hissed.

  Jake blinked his eyes, struggling to get his bearings and make sense of what was happening. The light turned away from his face, the beam resting on his chest. Though still squinting against the bright light, his eyes adjusted enough that he could see a woman sitting on him, holding a pistol to his forehead. He panicked again, trying to suck in air but his mouth was blocked. Air came through his nose but it wasn’t enough. He was hyperventilating. She pressed the gun against him harder.

  “Breathe slower,” she whispered. “Slow, deep breaths.”

  He tried to talk again but couldn’t form words.

  “You can’t talk. I shoved a pair of your nasty underwear into your mouth. You should do a better job picking up your room. You should also change your underwear a little more often.”

  He made another sound but she pressed the gun against his forehead so hard he was sure he could feel it cutting a circle in his flesh. He closed his eyes against the pain. It was like the worst brain freeze he’d ever had multiplied ten times over.

  “Do you know who I am?” the woman asked.

  Jake tried to focus on her, his brain struggling to make sense of the visual input. Wild, dark hair, angry eyes. He thought he might know her. The neighbor?

  She could see the light of recognition come on his brain. “I’m going to ask you one question and you better tell me the fucking truth. Did you steal medications from my house?”

  He said nothing, just stared at her wide-eyed, still feeling like he was suffocating. He started to hyperventilate again.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked. She was not pleased by his failure to respond. He was not taking her seriously and that was a mistake. She raised the gun about a foot above his head, then clubbed him viciously before placing the barrel back on his forehead. He grimaced and tried to twist his head away but she held him tight. Then she thumbed back the hammer of the revolver, the click of the mechanism unmistakable in the quiet of the room.

  When he still failed to respond, she lay the flashlight on the bed beside them. It shined upward onto her face, illuminating her in a ghastly manner that did nothing to decrease his level of fear. Her dark hair, gone wild from a month of inattention, splayed around her face, giving her a Medusa-like quality. Although she’d tried to stay clean, the dirt of the road had settled into the lines of her face, etching and exaggerating them. Perhaps most frightening was that with the light on her face, he could better see the complete absence of fear. He could see in her eyes what he, even as a young, inexperienced man, recognized as a wildness that bordered on insanity. She was a woman over the edge.

  Alice unsnapped the black sheath on her belt. There was a faint hiss as the blade slid from the leather. She leaned forward over his face, all her weight resting on the barrel of the gun, which in turn rested on Jake’s forehead. She lowered herself and whispered in his ear. “I don’t have the patience to make threats. I just want to know where our medication is. I’m going to pull that underwear out of your mouth and you’re going to answer me real quietly. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed an insincerity, a streak of noncompliance, that didn’t sit well with her. She didn’t like the boy – never had – and she didn’t want to waste any more time on coercion. She needed to get out of there.

  Without hesitation, she put the razor sharp blade of her dad’s knife to the tip of his nose, placing her thumb against the underside, just above his lip. She cut off the tip of his nose as casually as one might snip the tip off a carrot. The domed sliver of flesh stuck to the blade, the way a sliced mushroom might.

  His eyes widened in pain, but before he could make a sound, she pressed her hand over his mouth, pushing the underwear in further. His nervous system was overloaded, his body confused by the fear, the waves of pain, the gagging sensation, and the impending suffocation. She continued to hold her hand over his mouth until he looked as if he were losing consciousness. Then she violently jerked the underwear from his mouth in a single tug.

  He retched and started to cough. She could feel his hands twitching beneath her legs, trying to fly up to his mouth in reflex. She put the knife against his throat, laying it in the blood running from his nose, around his mouth, and down his neck. His body trembled as he tried to hold in the sounds wanting to fight their way out of his body. His eyes watered and his face grew red.

  “You see how easily I did that?” she whispered.

  He didn’t reply. He could see that she was pleased with herself. Pleased that she had elicited this reaction from him. Pleased that she’d hurt him.

  “Did you?” she repeated.

  He nodded this time, afraid that any failure to respond might bring more pain.

  “I used to be a good woman,” she said. “I looked after hundreds of employees at my company. I’ll be honest with you. After the shit I’ve been through – shit you couldn’t even imagine – I’m feeling a little unhinged. You do not want to push me.” The gun still pressed against his head, she lowered her other hand until the knife blade lay against his groin. She felt a shudder pass through his body. “You know what I’m considering next and you know I’ll do it.”

  He didn’t hesitate. He fully understood that she’d do it. He was afraid to even twitch his legs for fear of her reaction, that she’d snip him there as easily as she’d snipped the tip from his nose.

&n
bsp; “The backpack,” he hissed. “By the door.”

  Leaving the gun and knife in position, she turned her head slightly and observed that there was indeed a student backpack hanging from a nail on the wall. “You better not be lying,” she whispered.

  “I’m not,” he said. “Just take it and go. Get the fuck off me and get out of here.”

  His tone was defiant but whiny. She hated whiny people before. Now she couldn’t tolerate them at all. She pressed her knife against him harder. He had to be feeling the tip of the blade poking through the denim now. He had to know how close he was to permanent and irreparable mutilation.

  “Do not take an attitude with me,” she warned. “I might not be able to stop myself from giving you what you deserve.”

  He did not make a sound or move a muscle.

  Leaving the gun tight against his forehead, she sheathed her knife and eased off the bed, picking up her flashlight as she went. She backed away from the young man until she was beside the backpack. It was partially unzipped already.

  Jake sat up and gingerly pressed the dirty underwear over his bleeding nose, wincing as it made contact with the wound. Alice hit the button on her flashlight and directed the beam inside the pack. The bag was indeed full of pill bottles. She could tell that there were many more than they’d ever had at her house. The little bastard had been robbing a lot of other houses.

  She caught a flash of movement from her peripheral vision and looked over in time to see Jake yank a vicious-looking hatchet from beneath the bed. It was a garish black and neon green, like the kind of weapon supposedly designed for killing zombies. It would still be highly lethal.

  He whipped it back over his head and launched it at Alice. She lunged to the side, raised the pistol, and fired at him. His throw was rushed and the hatchet clattered harmlessly off the closed bedroom door several feet from Alice. Jake was not so lucky. Alice’s aim was true.