Sleeper Cell Super Boxset (108 page)

Ulysses took his belt off; folding it a few times, then slide it into Ray’s mouth. Ray’s hands gripped the side of the table until his knuckles turned white.

Anne’s finger hovered over the bone. She pressed down. Ray’s body seized in tension on the table, his whole body shaking as the bone slid deeper into his leg until it disappeared. When the pressure from Anne’s finger stopped, Ray went limp on the table, passed out.

The crack of the bone resetting into place triggered an unconscious spasm from Ray. Anne grabbed a splint from another first aid bag.

“Get those straps at the top, Ulysses,” Anne instructed tying the splint firmly to Ray’s leg.

Anne cleaned the wound, wiping the blood away and dumping hydrogen peroxide over the cuts. She applied fresh bandages and checked Ray’s pulse.

“We’ll have to watch him through the night, make sure there wasn’t any internal bleeding,” Anne said.

She placed the back of her hand to Ray’s forehead, checking his temperature. She took a rag and wiped the sweat from his face, padding him gently.

“If his temperature spikes within the next twenty-four hours it means he has an infection. We should keep him down here tonight and move him as little as possible,” Anne said.

Anne knew that Ray wouldn’t be able to walk without assistance for the rest of his life. She did what she could, but without professional medical help the bone wouldn’t set right. If Ray got an infection though it wouldn’t matter, they didn’t have any antibiotics in their medical stash to fight it.

***

When Ulysses walked around the cabin the next morning he could see the full devastation from the storm. Multiple trees had toppled over throughout the forest. The tree that landed on the roof of the cabin was a thick pine.

Ulysses spent most of the morning clearing out the smaller branches on the roof. He chopped them down and tossed them to the ground to be used as firewood for later. Trimming the tree would also make it easier to move. With one of the support beams from the roof already damaged he wasn’t sure how well the roof would hold, or if the tree would come crashing through at any moment.

The afternoon heat was getting worse. Ulysses’ shirt was drenched in sweat. He swung the axe high, digging deeper into the thick trunk of the pine. He felt the wood handle of the axe slide through his hands with each blow. The strain on his face, the tightening of his back, his muscles fatigued from the exertion and hot summer sun. Finally, the massive trunk snapped in half.

With half the tree now leaning at a more easily leveraged angle, Ulysses climbed up on the roof and crept around the area where the rest of the tree still remained. His knees cracked as he bent low trying to put his body behind the lift. He strained, pushing the log from the roof to the ground.

Just like the tree, Ulysses collapsed after the encounter. He lay on his back, sucking in air. His chest heaved up and down, the heat from the sun barreling down on him. He focused on slowing his breath to a steady rhythm and letting his heart rate come down.

Once Ulysses felt he had controlled his breathing, he pushed himself up and took a look where the tree had crashed into the roof.

It wasn’t as bad as he thought. Only one of the logs on the roof had been cracked from the weight of the pine and the only hole it created didn’t penetrate all the way through the roof.

Ulysses climbed down the ladder and headed to the front of the cabin to grab some water. When he entered Anne was coming up from the basement, her bloody hands holding dirty gauze.

“How’s he doing?” Ulysses asked.

Anne tossed the old bandages into the waste bucket. The dark bags under her eyes dragged her face down.

“He’s getting a little warm. I’ve been giving him Ibuprofen to help with the fever and I’ve been redoing the dressings on his wound, but it’s still too soon to tell. How’s the roof?”

“Not as bad as I thought.”

Ulysses walked into the kitchen with a slight limp. He tried to play it off, but Anne noticed.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Anne asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, here, sit down,” she said pulling a chair out for him.

Anne helped him into the chair and grabbed a bottle of water out of the cabinet. Ulysses gulped it down. She disappeared into the basement and came back holding two pills and extended her hand to him.

Ulysses popped the pills into his mouth and leaned back in the chair gingerly.

“Your back?” Anne asked.

“Just tired,” Ulysses said.

“Ulysses, now’s not the time to be a hero. I can’t have two seriously injured men to take care of. I need you to be careful.”

Ulysses twirled the gold band around his finger. He smiled to himself.

“You’re just like her you know.”

“Like who?”

“My late wife Margaret.”

The chair creaked as Ulysses leaned forward. He rubbed his fingers along the callouses covering his palms, the flesh still pink from the friction of the wooden handle on the axe.

“She was the strongest woman I ever met. I remember the first time I saw her. I had just started engineering school. The farm next to her family’s needed a new barn and called the construction company I worked for. We went on our first date that night. Sandwiches by the river.”

Ulysses could still smell the mud on the riverbank. He could feel his bare feet, squishing into the mud. His hand finding hers for the first time and remembering how warm her skin was. The moonlight danced off her hair and her green eyes glowed in darkness.

“I wish I could have met her,” Anne said.

“She would have liked you,” Ulysses answered.

Freddy came into the kitchen, yawning.

“Who would have liked you, Mom?” Freddy asked.

“Grandma,” Anne said lifting Freddy into her arms and kissing his temple.

“Do you think she would have liked me?” Freddy asked.

“She would have loved you,” Ulysses replied.

“Well, I would love some breakfast,” Freddy said.

Anne set him down and he rushed over to the table behind Ulysses.

“I think we all would. Ulysses?” Anne asked.

“I’d love some,” Ulysses replied.

Day 6 (Biker Gang)

The motorcycles flew down the highway, scattered randomly along the road. Jake road in front, leading his men to whatever town came next. They’d left Cleveland behind to rot. They’d been riding for forty miles before they came across Carrollton, a small town just west of Pennsylvania in the middle of nowhere.

Whatever cars the town had were parked right where they were when the EMP blast hit. Jake led the Diablos onto Carrollton’s Main Street, past some of their local stores, and the Sheriff’s office, to the motel. The bikers pulled into the motel’s parking lot side by side. The locals came out of their shops. The sight of working transportation caused a lot of jaws to drop.

Jake cut the engine off and set the kickstand out, leaning the bike to the side. His face was red from the wind and his hair was blown back. His dark sunglasses reflected the townspeople moving toward him.

“Afternoon, folks,” Hank Murth said.

Hank Murth was an elderly man. He had walked out of the grocery store that bore his name. He had his apron on and the pistol hanging at his hip seemed out of place. He extended his hand to Jake, who ignored it.

The crowd around them grew. None of Jake’s men moved until he did, so they followed his lead, just waiting. Questions flooded the air:

“How did you guys get the bikes to work?”

“Is the rest of the country in trouble?”

“Where did you come from?”

“Is help on the way?”

Most of the townspeople were older. Their worn faces pleading for answers, worried about what the future would hold for them. Jake looked around and noticed more people leaving their stores, coming out in the street to meet them, but the only person he kept his eyes on was the Sheriff strutting down the sidewalk.

Sheriff Barnes was a good’ol boy if Jake ever saw one, all the way from his cowboy hat to his boots, and that polished badge shining in the sun. Two deputies dressed in similar fashion followed closely behind him.

“Well, I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be happy to have a group of bikers roll through my town,” Barnes said.

Jake looked the officers up and down. Their bellies protruded over their waists, their gun holster straps still covering their pistols, slowing them down if they had to draw. They were kind. They were weak.

“How many people do you have in town, Sheriff?” Jake asked.

“Oh, I’d say there’s probably fifty of us here right now, more if you count some of the surrounding farms.”

“You and your deputies have any trouble lately? Any shortages of anything?”

“Well, no, so far we’ve been okay.”

Jake pulled the knife from his side and jammed it into the Sheriff’s throat. The blood spurt over Jake’s arm as he dug the blade deeper. Jake pulled the blade out and the Sheriff dropped to the ground. The Sheriff’s blood drenched his shirt and dimmed the shine on his badge.

Before the deputies could react Frankie blasted them through the eyes with his pistol. Hank reached for his gun, but Jake drew his own pistol and shot Hank through the gut.

Hank barreled over to the ground and the rest of the crowd scattered. They ran for their stores, their homes, whatever cover they could find.

With the town’s law at Jake’s feet, and their blood pooling on the street, Jake turned to his men, specks of the Sheriff’s blood still fresh on his face.

“We take what we want, boys. This town is ours,” Jake said.

The Diablos cheered and made their way down Main Street. Jake had his men hit the hunting store first. They smashed the windows, broke the glass cases housing the weapons, and horded all the ammo they could find.

They all spread out, hunting down the townspeople like dogs. A few fought back, but there weren’t enough that did to cause any trouble. Jake and his club were twenty strong. They were hungry, vicious, and had nothing to lose.

Gunshots and screams filled the town’s streets. Jake could see people running down the highway. He gathered six of his men around him.

“You three take the north end and you three take the south. Anyone that tries to run for it you gun down, understand?” Jake asked.

They nodded and took off toward the ends of town. Jake flagged down Frankie.

“Clear out the motel,” Jake said.

Frankie ran through the small motel, smashing down doors. He cleared the first floor and made his way up to the second. Each room he checked was empty. He blasted the locks of the doors until he came across a family huddled in the corner of their room: a husband, wife, and three daughters.

The husband tried to keep his family behind him, shielding them from harm. They were all shaking. The husband was the first to stand and speak.

“P-please. We don’t w-want any trouble,” he said.

The smoke from Frankie’s gun barrel rose in the air next to him. He holstered his pistol, smiling. His left hand went for the blade on his side. He ran his fingers across the flat end of the steel right up to the tip.

The husband stepped forward, his hands trying to form fists. Frankie toyed with him, jerking forward to scare the man, keeping him on his toes. Each time Frankie moved, the wife and daughters behind him let out a yelp and with each yelp Frankie let out a throaty laugh.

When the husband finally made a move for the blade Frankie knocked his hand out of the way and thrust the five inches of steel into the husband’s stomach.

Frankie twisted and turned the knife in the husband’s gut. The husband’s hands groped Frankie, grasping onto him and trying to hold on to the last moments of life he had left.

Blood dribbled down the husband’s chin and then he collapsed on the carpet, coughing up blood, clutching the knife wound and trying to staunch the bleeding with his hands.

The wife crawled to him with tears running down her face. She held his face in her hands. His eyes stared blankly up at her. His lungs gasped for breath until finally the gasps stopped, his body lying motionless before her.

Drops of blood from Frankie’s knife dripped on the carpet next to him. He wiped the blood from the blade onto the bed sheets, smearing red stains at the foot of the bed.

“Well, aren’t you a pretty bunch,” Frankie said.

Frankie’s ragged black hair hung in mangled strands across his face. The sweat from a week’s worth without showering had let the grime on his skin build up and a strong odor surrounded his body. He pointed at the oldest daughter, Mary, who was no older than sixteen.

“You. Come here,” he said.

“No!” the mother cried, rushing back to her daughters.

Frankie moved slowly toward them. The daughters retreated further into the corner of the room by the sink and bathroom. All three daughters were crying, their mother spreading her arms wide, offering her body as the only protection she had to give.

“Come here,” Frankie repeated.