In the Woods (28 page)

In a single voice, the crowd yelled, ‘No!'

‘Wait for them to get the government to run us off the land?'

‘No!'

‘Let them poison us one by one?'

‘No!' The crowd's answer reverberated inside the captain's ears.

‘Good. I agree – I'm right there with you. And the only way – I'm as sure of this as I am of my own name – the only way to stop them is to cut them off clean, sending a message so bloody shocking and final that they'll run their elbows and assholes all the way back to hell and never dare set foot in this woods, let alone try to mess with its people, ever again. I'm talking about war. Real honest to goodness, full-out war.'

The crowd erupted, cheering, clapping, standing up.

War? The captain's mind flashed back to the sounds. Sniper fire, the bam of an IED. Shouts and screams. And the smells. Burning rubber, burning flesh. He tightened his grip on his weapon and, when a gong sounded, he reflexively closed his eyes. Damn. He was losing control. Needed to step up. Be a leader.

But the people were all talking, not responding to the gong.

Hiram hit it again. And still, the din didn't fade.

‘Order,' the captain blared. ‘Order.' Stay cool, he reminded himself. Don't give that hot head subordinate any acknowledgement. Retain command. ‘That's great enthusiasm, but let's not get carried away. We have business to accomplish, and not a lot of time.'

But nobody was listening. The sector chief stood at the head of the room, ignored by his people. He told himself to give them a minute, and he stood there waiting, blood pressure mounting, face burning red.

Hiram stepped over. ‘What's your call, Chief? Want another clang?'

Slader turned to Hiram, his loyal old friend. But as he looked, Hiram seemed to have soft edges. His blurred, and the walls swayed. Legs caving, Slader leaned onto Hiram, who led him to a chair. Annie appeared, offering water.

‘Chief.' She took hold of his hands. ‘You all right? When did he eat?' she asked Hiram. ‘Did you eat today? I bet you didn't. You need some sugar.'

Sugar? He tried to remember what he'd been doing. Had to get up and speak to the members.

‘You stay right here a minute.' Annie ran off, shouting into the crowd for Mavis.

‘What the hell?' Instantly, Mavis ran over, knelt beside him. Kissed his cheek, stroked his head. Hovered.

Annie came back with cookies and juice. Made him eat.

Damn. He hadn't eaten in a while. Couldn't remember when. He scarfed down the cookies, guzzled the juice. Felt his energy come back. He gave Mavis a quick hug, thanked Annie. And, as the Hunt Club members swarmed and buzzed like an angry hive, he stood up and walked back to his place by the gong.

It was the chief's turn to talk.

Bob pointed at Pete's sandwich. ‘You gonna eat that?'

Eat? Really? Pete squinted out the crack beside the door, able to see only a sliver of open space. But in that sliver, he could see segments of the two armed guards still standing near the fence. How could Bob think about food? The walls of the shed squeezed him, taunting, suffocating. The burns on his face and hands had become inflamed and raw. They were trapped with a stash of explosives and ammunition. And according to the angle of the sun, it would be a couple more hours until it would be dark enough to try to escape. But Bob was thinking of food.

‘Because if you don't want it, I'll take it.'

Fuck if he was going to let Bob have it. ‘I want it.'

‘Why aren't you eating it?'

Really? ‘I'm saving it.'

‘How about you give me half?'

‘No.'

Bob didn't answer. Pete looked out at the guards, thinking. Maybe they didn't have to wait for sundown – maybe they could run for it now. If he and Bob carried rifles and took the guards by surprise, they might be able to get past them and climb over the fence. Except the guards had radios, would call for help. And the local people knew the woods better, would outnumber them. So, for it to work, the guards would have to be disabled.

‘We'll need to tie them up.' He turned to Bob. Saw him swallow a mouthful of his sandwich. ‘Fuck you, Bob. I said I wanted that.' He was on his feet, grabbing at the bread, snatching it out of Bob's hand so hard that he stumbled backwards. Bob grappled with him, tearing off a crust and a wad of ham.

‘What the fuck's wrong with you?' Bob chewed.

‘What's wrong with
me
? You're the one who took somebody else's sandwich.' Pete steadied himself, clutching what was left of it. Took a bite even though he doubted he could keep it down. He chewed slowly, his eyes on Bob. ‘You had no right.'

‘Jesus.' Bob met Pete's eyes. ‘Stop being such a little girl.'

That was it. Pete had had enough. ‘You know what, Bob? When this is over, I'm done with you.'

‘Yeah? Good.' Bob grinned, got to his feet. ‘I can't wait to be rid of your sorry ass.' He gave Pete's sternum a push.

‘What, now you're pushing me?' Pete's eyelids twitched. Even with the sandwich in his hand, he pushed Bob back.

Bob's eyes hardened and he shoved Pete hard, knocking him against the wall. Pete bounced back, letting loose, kicking and punching, and the two of them fell over, rolling on the floor, bumping against boxes and crates, yelping in pain as their burnt flesh made impact with wood, fabric, stubble, or skin.

‘Apologize.' Pete's voice was too loud, and they were making a ruckus. Pete didn't care. He was pissed. He locked his elbows around Bob's head and squeezed.

‘Let go,' Bob hissed. ‘They'll hear us.'

‘Fine. Let them,' Pete said louder. He was ready to be caught. Anything would be better than staying closed up in this claustrophobic shack in a forest where hairy monsters roamed and your so-called friend stole your food. ‘Apologize.'

‘Shut the fuck up!' Bob growled, swinging his burn-covered fists onto Pete's back.

Pete tightened his vise-like grip on Bob's head. ‘Only if you apologize.'

‘Fine,' Bob winced. ‘Sorry.'

‘No. Like you mean it.'

‘Fine.' Bob's voice quivered. ‘I apologize. Sincerely. I shouldn't have taken your sandwich.'

‘And you'll respect me and my property from now on.'

‘Yes. I'll respect you and your property from now on.'

‘Good.' Pete released him.

Bob whirled around and socked Pete in the jaw. Pete went down, landing hard on the stuffed backpacks.

Bob's froze. The blood drained from his face. ‘Shit.'

‘What?'

‘Don't move.'

‘What – why?' Pete held his jaw, looked around. Saw the backpacks under him. Glanced at Bob, remembering what was in them. Not just the C4 and their leftover pipe bomb, but those jars of unidentified liquid and gel. Possibly unstable stuff that might explode on impact. Pete took a breath and propelled himself forward, crossing the shed toward the door, running on his knees.

‘Oh man.' Bob's hands covered his face. ‘I thought we were goners.'

‘Asshole. Knocking me onto that shit? You could have fucking killed us both.'

‘Shh.' Bob looked out the open crack by the door. ‘Keep your voice down. We're fine. They probably need a detonator.'

‘You don't know that. We have no idea what that stuff is. The liquid could be nitro-fucking-glycerin. I told you. It blows up if you look at it wrong.'

‘Jesus, Pete. I swear, if you don't stop whining—'

‘What? You'll push me onto a bagful of nitro?'

‘Cool it, would you? Nothing happened.'

Pete settled against the door, rubbed his jaw with one raw hand, held the crushed and filthy remains of his sandwich in the other.

Bob sat down beside him, crossed his legs. ‘Fucking maniac,' he said. ‘You weren't eating it anyway.'

‘It's the principle. It was mine.'

‘Yeah? Well, you're welcome to it. Bon appétit.'

Pete looked at it, dropped it on the ground. The sun hadn't moved. So they still had two more hours? His jaw throbbed where Bob's fist had landed. His burns killed. There was a ten-foot monster wandering around; women who'd disappeared. The walls of the shed were crushing him. And now, his best friend – the partner who shared responsibility for their whole plan – had turned on him. He'd known Bob had a dark side, but never suspected that he'd stoop so low as to take a guy's sandwich.

Pete looked out the crack near the door. Saw the monster's footprints in the dirt. The barbed wire fence across the field. Something was wrong, though. It took a while to figure out what it was: He didn't see the guards. Maybe it was nothing; after all, he could see only a narrow strip. Probably they'd moved out of his line of sight.

Still, he grabbed a rifle, motioned for Bob to do the same, opened the door another inch, widening his view. And saw the muzzle of a shotgun, pointed at his head.

Harper stood on tiptoes, stretching to reach the vent so she could hear what was going on upstairs, but Angela interfered.

‘What are you doing, Harper? What's going on?' Angela sat up on the cot, repeating questions. ‘What happened to me?' She touched her matted hair, felt her scalp. Winced.

‘Angela, quiet. I can't hear what they're saying.'

‘Oh God. My head got split open. I can feel it. Was I unconscious? The last thing I remember is eating oatmeal at your campsite – so what happened? How did I hurt my head? How did we get here? And who's this guy?' She tilted her head toward Jim. He was silent, sitting on the floor, still staring at the light bulb.

Harper turned to Angela, felt like knocking her out again. ‘I'll explain later.'

‘Why not now?'

Harper glared.

‘Okay, just tell me – are we in jail?'

‘Of course not—'

‘Then what is this place? How come I can't remember coming here?'

‘You said it yourself; you were unconscious for a while. You got dropped on your head.'

‘Dropped on my head?'

‘I'll tell you later.'

‘But who dropped me? Was it him?' Angela tried to get up, moved her leg, grimaced. ‘Oh God, my ankle.' She looked at it, saw the swelling, the garish purplish color. ‘Wait – your husband. I remember, I hurt my ankle and he went to get help—'

‘Angela. Enough!' Harper heard commotion from the meeting room.

‘Why shouldn't I talk? Tell me what's going on – why are you standing up there?'

Oh God. Maybe the quickest way to quiet Angela would be to answer her questions. ‘I'm trying to hear what they're saying.'

‘What who's saying? Where are we? What are we doing here?' Angela scuttled to the edge of the cot, looked around. ‘Where's my walking stick? I need to get out of here.' Her voice was shrill, rising in pitch.

Jim didn't move, just said, ‘Good luck.'

‘What?'

‘We're locked up. Prisoners.'

‘What?' Angela turned to Harper, squawking. ‘What's he saying? You said we weren't in jail.'

‘We were kidnapped,' Harper said. ‘By some locals.'

‘Locals? Why? I haven't done anything to them. I don't even know any of them. What could they want with me?'

With
her
? Harper rolled her eyes.

Angela turned to Jim. ‘Who are you?'

Jim looked at her, said nothing.

The sound of a gong resounded through the vent.

‘Angela,' Harper used her lieutenant's voice, ‘that's Jim. He works for the pipeline, okay? Now, I need to listen, so quiet.'

Angela wasn't paying attention. Her eyes darted from left to right, up and down. ‘No – no. This is crazy. I need to get out of here.'

The gong sounded again.

‘Shh – they're starting again.'

‘Starting? Starting what?' Angela shrieked. ‘Oh God. I can't stay here. Let me out.' She pushed herself up, hopping on her uninjured foot, yelling. ‘Help! Somebody! Help! Let me—'

She didn't finish because Jim got up, put his arms out and charged, growling, ‘Just shut up!'

Angela landed on the cot, winded and stunned. She edged back against the wall, whimpering and huffing, and sat eyeing Jim. But, for the moment, she didn't say a word. Harper stood at the vent, listening to the crowd settle as the captain began to speak.

The captain stood on a crate, elevating himself above the others. It wasn't a tactic he preferred, but the members were riled up and rowdy. He needed to assert his authority, and visible stature was a symbol everyone would respond to. Gradually.

‘Okay.' He raised his arms, motioning for them to settle down. Calling for attention, he noted that people had divided into groups. The biggest surrounded that lunatic Josh, who had just put everyone into a frenzy. But another bunch, mostly women, clustered around Mavis. He needed to unite them all, remind them that he was their leader.

‘Let me get right to it,' he began. ‘I've been briefed on what's gone on while I was out chasing bombers and fending off the Feds. I understand that some of us have taken it upon themselves to take hostages, and that we now have three people locked in the hole. That's abduction. It makes us a target for investigation by the Feds, as if we didn't have enough problems.'

Somebody shouted, ‘They're prisoners of war!'

Somebody added, ‘Stop being a pussy, Slader!'

Slader took a breath. ‘As your sector chief, I need to talk to you about reasoned action. About planning. About control.'

‘About bullshit.' That came from Josh's camp.

‘You already know that the killings and bombings have made our little territory the focus of the state police, the ATF, the media, and the gas and pipeline companies. The woods are crawling with investigators.'

‘What's your point?' a woman called out.

Slader didn't react, just kept talking. ‘We have no reason to believe that any of the people you've taken prisoner have anything to do with the bombings. Nor do we have reason to believe any assertions of a conspiracy; there is simply no evidence to support that theory.'