HOMELAND: Falling Down (Part 1 of the HOMELAND Series) (14 page)

He smelled Angie’s hair. “Yeah. We gonna have some fu—” The thug’s words turned to shrieks of pain as Eduardo’s steak knife stabbed deep into his forearm.

Angie pulled the mace from her pocket and sprayed it into the hooded man’s face. He dropped his knife and crumpled to the ground in agony.

They ran again, heading for the nearest way out of the park. Angry shouts from behind told them the hoodlum’s friends had found him. Eduardo saw a break in the trees ahead and hoped it was a way out. “There! Hurry!” A pop behind them sent a bullet whizzing in their direction, barely missing Sam’s head. More followed, shredding foliage and sparking on concrete. The projectiles hurtled past them into the city beyond. Glass shattered. Dogs barked.

Eduardo glanced over his shoulder at the gang. The demonic silhouettes with their crude weapons and steamy breath were gaining fast.

The three of them sprinted onto the street, their lungs near bursting. Eduardo knew they wouldn’t last much longer at this pace. He considered his options. The street was a deathtrap. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

Sam said to Angie and Eduardo, “Run. I’ll hold them off.”

“No.”

“It’s the only way. I’ll try to buy you some time. Now go!”

“No!” Eduardo yelled, “We’re not leaving you!”

“Hey!” Someone called. “Hey! Buddy!” It came from a darkened storefront. “Over here!” an ebony-skinned man called out in a thick African accent.

Eduardo spotted him in the half open door of a small convenience store.

The man beckoned to them. “Hurry!”

They used the last of their energy to dash into the store. The man pulled a thick metal rolling door down over the entire storefront and locked it shut as bullets slammed against its exterior. A heartbeat later, the door shuddered with the pounding of fists and bludgeons accompanied by howls and obscene taunts.

Angie cowered in a corner, covering her ears.

The shop owner comforted her. “Do not worry. They will not get in here. And even if they could, I am ready for them.” He held up a shotgun and opened his jacket to reveal two semiautomatic pistols tucked into his belt.

Eduardo held out his hand. “Thank you.”

The man took it. “You are welcome. My name is Kaafi.” He turned on a small battery powered lantern, reached into a wall cooler, and pulled out a bottle of water for Angie.

Angie took the water with a trembling hand and began to cry.

Eduardo sat next to her and took her in his arms. “It’s okay. They can’t get us in here.”

She sobbed. “Why are they doing this?”

Kaafi answered, “All men are savages. It has always been this way. It was true in my country. Now it is true here.”

The pounding suddenly stopped, replaced by muffled curses as the besiegers withdrew in frustration.

“Are all women savages, too?” Sam asked with a ring a sarcasm.

The African smiled. “What do you think?”

Eduardo said to Kaafi, “I’m Eddie.”

“Eduardo Rivera. Yes, I know who you are.”

“Please, call me Eddie. This is Angie and Sam. You saved our lives.”

“As mine was once saved many years ago.” He opened some beers and gave one each to Eduardo and Sam. “Water is good for women and children, but I think you need something more. Yes?”

“Yes.” Sam smiled and took the bottle. He took a swig and held it to his face. The cool glass felt good against his flushed skin.

Kaafi said, “You are wounded.”

Eduardo looked at Sam. “Must have busted your stitches.”

“Not him. You.” Kaafi pointed to Eduardo’s arm left arm. Blood soaked his shirt from the triceps down.

Eduardo suddenly became aware of stinging, throbbing pain.

Kaafi tore the sleeve open. “Bullet. Passed through clean. Needs stitches.” He went to the back of the store and returned with a suture kit, rubbing alcohol, and clean bandages.

Eduardo looked surprised. “Now?”

“Life has taught me to be prepared.”

Jaw and fists clinched tightly, Eduardo fought the urge to cry out as Kaafi cleaned the wound.

Sam held up his own stitched arm and smiled. “C’mon, Eddie. Don’t be such a pussy.”

“I am sorry. I have no pain medicine,” Kaafi said.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Eduardo asked through gritted teeth.

“Where I am from we learn to fight when we learn to walk. We learn to treat wounds before learning to read.” Kaafi skillfully stitched and bandaged the torn flesh. “That will help. You should also take some antibiotics. Sadly, another medicine I do not have.”

“You’ve already done more than we can repay.”

“Help another when the time comes. Keep your humanity intact. That will be payment enough.” Kaafi turned on a portable radio on the shop counter. “Let us see what is happening outside.”

The nation was in chaos. Authorities were helpless against looting and rioting on such a grand scale. Fires were everywhere. The cities were the worst hit.

“My God,” Eduardo said, “The whole country is coming apart.”

Kaafi gave blankets to the three of them. They tried to rest in spite of the terrifying sounds outside. Eduardo succumbed to exhaustion while listening to the news a few hours after Angie and Sam fell asleep. Thankfully, his was a dreamless sleep.

He woke with a start in complete darkness.

“Wake up!” Kaafi whispered.

Eduardo sat up. The room was freezing. He asked, “What time is it?”

“Shhhhhh. Someone is outside.”

There was a rustling outside the shop. Not loud, but purposeful. Like an animal digging a hole. The jingle of chain links came next. Someone was up to something. Eduardo heard hushed voices through the door, muffled by the sheet metal.

“What are they doing?”

“Don’t know.”

After he and Eduardo quietly woke the others and hurried them to the rear of the store, Kaafi grabbed his shotgun. He offered Eduardo a pistol.

Eduardo declined. “I’m no killer.”

“There comes a time when even civilized men must defend themselves.”

Eduardo took the gun.

The rustling stopped. Quick steps shuffled away from the shop.

Eduardo sighed with relief. “They’re gone.”

An engine started. It sounded like a truck. It revved. The steel door jerked. Someone was trying to pull it off.

The truck backed up and tried again. The door buckled outward.

The truck backed up once more.

“There is a back door near the bathroom,” Kaafi said, “It leads to an alley behind the store. Get your friends and run.”

Eduardo raised his pistol toward the intruders. “I’m staying.”

“What do you think will happen to her if they get past us?”

“Then come with us.”

“No. I stay. This is
my
store. I am through running from animals like them.” He shoved Eduardo toward the back door. “Go!”

Eduardo grabbed his backpack and led Angie into the alley. The squeal and crash of truck tires and rending metal followed them out the door. Shotgun blasts echoed down the narrow way as they ran for their lives for the third time that night.

They emerged from the alley as the last shotgun report sounded. They hid behind a burned out van. Muffled pistol shots followed. Then all fell quite. Only hum of the idling truck remained.

The city was black. The only light came from the glow of the fires and the icy rays of the late autumn moon.

“Where’s Sam,” whispered Angie.

“Stay here.” Eduardo rose to go back, but ducked again at the sound of Kaafi’s back door slamming open.

Sam burst from the building with his pursuers only steps behind.

Eduardo and Angie froze. They watched through the van’s broken windows as Sam was tackled to the pavement.

One of attackers straddled Sam’s chest as more of his cohorts streamed into the alley and gathered around them.

He put a knife in his face. “Too slow, old man.”

The blade bit into flesh, sending blood trickled down Sam’s cheek.

Sam spit in the man’s face.

“Make him squeal!” a voice cried with glee.

“Cut his head off!” cheered another.

“Squeel, pig!”

“Screw you!” Sam punched the thug in the gut.

“You’re gonna pay for that.” The knife slid across Sam’s neck. Red spray covered both of them.

Sam voiced a primal howl, struggling for his life as the metal sawed through his flesh.

Eduardo whispered, “We have to help him.”

“No. There are too many of them.” Angie covered her mouth to keep from screaming. “Oh, God.”

Sam’s cries were cut short as the blade found his windpipe.

“Yeah! Yeah! Cut his pig head off!”

The thug continued to work the knife with macabre delight.

Eduardo couldn’t be still any longer. He gripped Kaafi’s pistol, stood, and fired. The thug collapsed onto Sam’s corpse. He pulled Angie up by the arm. “Run!”

They sprinted west across Broadway and ran several more blocks to the river’s edge, lungs afire and legs quivering.

Echoing shouts from somewhere behind told them their pursuers were still on their trail. They ran again, but soon ran out of ground. They stood on a cement peer jutting into the Hudson River, trapped between the rampaging gang and the raging current.

“We can swim for it.” Angie pointed to the far shore. “It doesn’t look that far.”

“We’ll never make it.”

Another shout from the gloom. “I found ‘em! Over here!”

They were out of time.

Eduardo looked into the water. He saw something bobbing in the shallows. He strained to make it out in the darkness. It was big. He hoped it was big enough.

Silhouettes ran toward them, a hundred yards away and closing fast.

“Jump.” Eduardo put a leg over the rail.

“But you said…”

“You were right. We can make it.”

They leaped together into the night.

9

HANK

The deputy ducked into his squad car for a moment’s respite from the dawn chill. He poured a cup of coffee from a battered thermos and cradled the warm beverage in both hands, making the best of the meager warmth it provided. He started the engine. The heater ate away at the morning frost on the vehicle’s windows as the feeling returned to his frozen fingers.

He and two volunteer deputies had been there for twelve frigid hours, manning the roadblock on Interstate Forty, guarding the bridge spanning Lake Douglas on the Jefferson County line.

He checked the time and keyed the hand microphone of his police radio. “700 this is checkpoint one, over.”

Freeport Sherriff’s Department headquarters replied, “This is 700. Go ahead.”

“Our relief is thirty minutes late. Tell ‘em to get a move on.”

“Hold your horses,” another voice broke in, “I’m on my way. Just a few minutes out.”

“Step on it. We’re freezin’ our chicken nuggets off out here.”

“Checkpoint one.” It was 700 again. “Have you heard from 701?”

“Negative. No sign of the sheriff.”

There was a knock at the window. A volunteer deputy in padded brown coveralls cradling a scoped hunting rifle beckoned the officer out to the barricade.

“Checkpoint one out.” The officer put down the mic and reluctantly left the warmth of the cruiser.

Commandeered cars were parked end to end, blocking all four lanes of the highway on the far side of the bridge.

The volunteer stood behind the makeshift barrier with two other deputized civilians. “Look there.” He pointed to something on the horizon.

The deputy strained to see a figure on the road in the distance. No. Two figures. Walking toward them.

“Here.” The volunteer handed him the rifle. The deputy looked through the scope.

“It’s the sheriff. By God it’s him.”

“Who’s that with him?”

“Can’t tell.” The deputy rapped the top of the car in front of them. “Pull this thing outta the way.”

He hopped in his cruiser and sped toward the pair. Details came into focus as he drew near. Both figures looked like dead men walking. Sheriff Sexton’s left arm hung limp and bloody at his side as he shuffled along, barely able to put one foot ahead of the other.

The other person was smaller, male, and carried a rifle. It was the kid from the Walmart attack.

The deputy stopped, jumped out of the car and pulled his sidearm. “On the ground, punk!”

Hank raised his good hand and rasped, “He’s okay.”

The deputy kept his pistol aimed at Brandon. He pointed to the gun in the teenager’s hands. “Give it here.”

Brandon held the weapon out, struggling to keep his grip, his breath coming in ragged heaves.

The deputy grabbed the gun. “You okay, Sheriff?”

Hank nodded faintly. “Little dinged up.”

Brandon wheezed, “The sheriff’s lost a lot of blood.”

The deputy eased Hank into the squad car. “Let’s get you to the hospital.” He said to Brandon, “You too.”

Brandon climbed in and they were off, lights flashing and siren blaring, toward Freeport.

The deputy radioed HQ. “700 this is checkpoint one. I have 701 in hand. He’s in rough shape. Heading to the hospital now.”

“Roger checkpoint one. We’ll let ‘em know you’re on your way,” came the reply.

“Strengthen the barricades,” Hank said, his voice barely a whisper.

“I can’t hear you, Sheriff.” The deputy turned his ear to Hank, straining to listen, but the siren drowned out his strained words.

“The barricades.” Hank slumped in his seat. “They’re coming,” He murmured, “They’re coming.”

“Who’s coming?”

The siren sounded distant. Hank’s vision became murky.

“Sheriff! Stay with me. Sheriff, you gotta stay away…” The deputy’s words were muffled like a voice from another room.

Everything faded to nothing as the darkness claimed him once again.

*****

Hank opened his eyes, squinting against the dim light. For a moment, he thought he’d crossed over, but the pain racking his body told him without a doubt that he was still among the living.

“Hank.” It was Betty’s voice, sweet as springtime to his ear.

He was lying in a hospital bed. The beep and hiss of medical equipment played the all too familiar song of sickness and worry.