After Darkness Fell (8 page)

“
Moss!
” Her terror-filled voice stabbed me sharply between the shoulder blades.

I spun around and pulled the .357 out from under my belt. My nerves jumped wildly as I raced across the lot. When I peered around the corner of the building, I stopped cold.

A biker sprawled on the ground, bleeding from a bullet wound in his gut. His hands and forearms were covered in blood as he gripped a sawed-off shotgun. Its blood-smeared barrels were aimed at Fields.

My thoughts raced as I clumsily jammed the .357 behind my back, underneath my belt. I couldn’t risk the man seeing it. He’d panic and shoot Fields. Or both of us.

“I’m right here,” I said as I stepped around the corner of the building, my hands up.

“N-No, Moss.” Her voice sounded choked.

“It’ll be okay,” I said softly, hoping my voice would reassure her.

As soon as the wounded man saw me, he jerked the shotgun sharply to his left, away from Fields. He did it clumsily, nearly losing his balance. The process took him considerable effort, and he squealed loudly. His entire torso was soaked, making any sudden movement extremely painful. I couldn’t see the bullet wound but could judge by the blood pattern that he’d been hit dead-center—somewhere below his ribcage and above the groin area. Since Fields and I hadn’t seen what happened, we didn’t know what gun or caliber had been used. The blast sounded like a .44 mag, perhaps, or .357. The damage was massive and fatal, involving the intestines and other vital organs. He wouldn’t last long.

But that didn’t mean Fields and I had nothing to worry about.

I was standing at least thirty feet away and had to keep him focused on me. The shotgun barrels were no more than a foot in length; the spray pattern would be wide enough for me to survive. However, Fields was standing less than ten feet from the weapon and wouldn’t be so lucky.

Somehow, in spite of the fear growing rapidly inside me, I found my voice. “Are you Morgan?”

He cringed; the shotgun lowered an inch. He squinted through the tears and the sweat pouring down his face and his broad, dirt-smeared forehead. Thick strands of long, greasy black hair had fallen over his face, mingling with his beard. “W-Who the fuck ... are you?”

“Trapper sent me.” I hoped that confusing him would give us time.
Maybe all we’
d need was a few minutes before he start slipping away.

He squinted. “
Huh
?”

“He told me he didn’t mean for you to be shot.”

Morgan coughed but kept the shotgun aimed in my direction. “Fucker ... he
let
that dickhead Aaron shoot me, you dumb shit ...”

“Trapper said Aaron shouldn’t have done it. He said your dad wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Pops?” The man’s voice changed, grew softer, higher-pitched. “I hurt ... I really
hurt
!”

“Anything I can get you, son?”

“Pops?” He sniffed; the shotgun lowered another couple of inches. He shook his head to get his hair away from his eyes. “Moms around? I don’t ... want her to ... she don’t like me ... gettin’ into...”

“I’ll talk to her.” I wanted Fields to move to her left, but I couldn’t give her a signal. The man would certainly lose what little sense he had left and shoot one of us.

Morgan coughed wetly. “Promise?”

“I sure do.” I hoped I could get to the .357 quickly enough. Fields wore her .45 in her hip; she kept her hands held high and wouldn’t be able to get to her piece before Morgan could shoot her. I had to somehow keep this guy talking and coax Fields out of the way. I couldn’t risk waiting any longer. This man could last ten minutes or more. “Everything’ll be all right, son.”

“N-No ...” Morgan shook his head, his hair skipping across the shoulders of his leather jacket. More blood trickled onto his left hand. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“What’s wrong, son?”

He groaned. “Just shit my fuckin’
pants
!”

A heavy fecal odor drifted in our direction.

Fields slowly turned to look at me. Her face was white, her eyes filling the sockets. She didn’t move. Her eyes screamed at me. I forced myself to put as much reassurance into my expression as I possibly could. Fields was strong, but even a blind man could tell she was hovering dangerously close to the panic mode.

I took a deep breath. “It’s ... okay. You’ve just been shot...”

“It
ain’t
fuckin’ okay, Jack!” The barrels jerked back up. He glared at me. “It
ain’t
fuckin’ okay. It really sucks!” Then he abruptly shifted his eyes back to Fields and raised the shotgun again. It took him considerable effort, and he groaned weakly. “It’s
her
fault, dammit! Moms, it’s
your
fault!
Your
fuckin’ fault!
You
did this! Damn you,
you
did this to me!”

“It’s
not
her fault.” I struggled to keep the panic out of my voice. “She doesn’t have anything to do with this. This is my fault. And if you want to do something about it, you have to deal with me.”

He turned awkwardly in my direction. His eyes closed and his head bobbed as he struggled to stay awake. As he fought to keep from collapsing, I brought my right hand down and behind my back. Despite my growing fear, my experience took over, steadying my hand and closing it tightly around the comforting grips of the .357.

Fields instinctively leaped to her left.

Morgan’s eyes shot open; he jerked his head in her direction.

I pulled out the .357 and shot him in the head. The force of the powerful caliber slammed his right side into the pavement. The shotgun clattered to the cracked concrete three feet from him, just beyond the blood and brain splatter.

Fields pushed herself up and studied the scene on her hands and knees. She looked at me, turned back to the dead biker, groaned, bent over and threw up.

***

While I waited for Fields to recover, I struggled to keep myself in control. The woman I loved was almost killed with a shotgun, and this would have happened just ten feet away from where I was standing. In spite of my military training and everything I’d faced in the last six months, the fear swept violently through me, and I felt the blood turn to ice in my veins. I had to fight it.
Take down the enemy
, my inner voice kept telling me, over and over.
Forget the fear, the urge to run away, and take him down
.

That was what I just did, and now that it was all over, I had to listen to the inner voice once again. This time it said,
Do it and forget about it. Put it behind you and move on
.

Move on
. Somehow, that important tidbit just wasn’t working right now. Not with what I was looking at.

Her head down, Fields knelt on the ground, her arms crossed as she hugged herself. She sobbed quietly and made no effort to look up and see where I was, or if I was still there. I recognized shock when I saw it, and knew that people dealt with it in many different ways. Fields was fighting it in her own way. She was surrendering, holding everything in while coming to grips with what she’d just been through.

Although she needed time, we couldn’t stay here. The bikers could be coming back, for all we knew. Or that damned compact. Whatever the case, we had to get back on the road.

I knew something about interrupting people in their grief or shock. I also realized how dangerous it was. But I had no choice. I approached her quietly. If I could get her back to the truck, we could get out of here. She could continue crying in the safety of the truck, and I’d let her have her privacy. It would take at least twenty minutes to get back to the farm. Once there, she could lie down and rest.

“Brooke? It’s me. I think we’d better leave.”

No response.

“Brooke? Please ...”

Still no response.

Taking a deep breath, I reached down and gently touched her right shoulder.

She pulled back sharply, as if bitten by a poisonous snake. She spun around to face me and through the long tangles of her hair covering parts of her face I could see the terror blazing from her large glossy eyes. Drool beaded from her lower lip and had gathered on her chin. She looked like someone who had just been given a frightening glimpse of Hell.

I’d seen this same expression many times before, years ago. I’d seen it on vest killers just before they activated the bomb. I’d seen it on gang members when a police assault weapon turned their way. I’d also seen it on children packed tightly into vans for export in the slave and prostitution trade, as the rear doors opened and sunlight shined on their faces for the first time since their confinement. This expression had haunted me for many years, and I didn’t care to see it ever again.

I surely hadn’t wanted to see it on Fields.

I didn’t move. I continued to watch her, hoping that the horror that had taken over her spirit would eventually fade, and that my image would come back and remove some of the fear and terror she’d just experienced. I’d already returned the .357 to its place beneath my belt behind my back. When the darkness enveloping her ebbed and my image appeared to her again, she wouldn’t see the gun, and thus remember the horror.

She remained frozen, her gaze never leaving me. Then, finally, she blinked several times, as if awakening from a dream, and began breathing normally. She shivered. The dead biker lay about ten feet directly to her left. She continued to stare at the pavement directly in front of her. She grew still and didn’t move. Then, just as I began wondering if she would ever move again, she slowly raised her head. Her hair had fallen over her face. She slowly brought up her hands and pushed it away, letting it fall down her back.

When I saw her face again, I sighed in relief. The terror had left her eyes. She sighed, and as she looked at me, I could have sworn I saw a smile struggling to soften her features.

I knelt beside her. “Brooke?”

She tilted her head. “You ... never call me that.”

“You scared me.”

“It ... sounded nice.”

Her closeness began making me lose focus, but at least I found my self-confidence returning. Still, I knew we had to get out of here. “C’mon.” I took her arm. “We have to go.”

She let me help her up and guide her back down the slope, where the truck awaited us in the parking lot. She moved stiffly at first and then relaxed, keeping close to me, her side pressed against mine as I led her back to the truck. She even let me hold her around the waist while I pulled open her door. I helped her up the step and made sure she was settled in comfortably as I strapped her in. Her head fell back onto the neck rest. Her eyes were closed while I circled the front of the truck and climbed in beside her.

I saw no reason to continue with our propane run. It was much more important to leave this place. I fired up the ignition, backed out and eased down the gravel aisle, where the opened gate led back up the sloped hill, to the main road.

The dead figure sprawled in the middle of the pavement, less than twenty yards ahead. I’d have to veer the truck to the left, brushing the bushes in front of the property fence. The truck’s tires would straddle the shotgun, which lay a few feet from the corpse. It wouldn’t take long to pass the grisly scene, especially if I hurried through. But I didn’t want her to watch.

I stopped the truck.

Fields sat up. “What’s...?

“Close your eyes.”

“What’s going...?

“Just do it. Please?”

She stared at me in silence. She’d become quite skilled at reading me during the last three months; it didn’t take her a moment in this case. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back onto the neck rest.

I brought the truck up the hill, moved over to the bushes and slipped past the dead biker. Once we’d cleared the gory scene, I eased up to the curb and immediately pulled out onto the main road.

Fields’ eyes remained shut.

It only took me a few moments to realize she’d fallen asleep.

***

After just a few minutes, Fields began to stir. About a minute later she sat forward and brought her hands up to her face.

Keeping my attention on the winding road ahead, I gently grasped her forearm. She pulled back; her eyes grew. When she realized it was me she relaxed and pushed some hair away from her face. “How long have I ... I must have dozed off.”

“You’re gonna be okay. We’ll be home in about fifteen minutes, and...”

“And then what?” The spark in her eyes told me I’d just triggered something.

“Then we can relax, have a drink.”

“Moss, we were almost
killed
back there!”

“I know.”

“Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It means a lot.”

“Really?” She sounded skeptical.

“Yes. It does.”

“I know you, Moss. I know how you look at things, how you think. This didn’t bother you at all, did it?”