Afraid

“You have ten minutes to get us there,” Logan said, “or I’ll feed you your own liver.”

As they got into the truck, the Chip initiated another thought in Taylor’s head. Call the others. He held open his plastic leggings and tugged the Multichannel Multipoint Distribution Service Communicator out of his front pocket. He slid back the cover on the MMDSC and held it to his head like a cell phone, speaking loudly to overcome the distortions of the gas mask.

“Head bird acquired. Stand by for directions to the nest.”

The Honey Wagon pulled out of the parking lot and onto Main Street, and Logan again poked Olen with the knife, for no particular reason. Taylor smiled; he wasn’t the only one aroused by the pain of others. He mentally ran through the next few objectives, and he closed his eyes and pictured the last one. The one that missions always ended with. Have fun.

All good soldiers got to partake in a little rest and relaxation when combat duties were finished. Sometimes R&R lasted for days before evac was called. He’d be free to indulge in whatever warped fantasies he could dream up. No rules. No laws. No repercussions. He hoped there would be a few survivors left for playtime. Maybe that sexy waitress, Fran. Taylor smiled. Her blood had been deliciously salty.

The Chip sensed the electrochemical changes in Taylor’s cerebral cortex and rebooted. Taylor dug out a Charge capsule and slipped it up under his gas mask.

The fumes took away the daydreams. But Taylor’s smile stayed.

Streng pulled into the Water Department parking lot and had his choice of spaces. He parked in the handicapped zone because it was closest to the front door.

Bernie had behaved for the remainder of the ride, sitting silently and staring straight ahead. Streng flipped on the interior light and turned around, studying his captive. Bernie’s face had swelled up even more, purple and red hues peeking though the dried blood. Streng noted the lump on his forehead where he’d introduced Bernie to his thirty-two-inch tires and didn’t feel a shred of pity. Though the killer was beaten, acting docile, and still had his hands tied behind him, Streng wouldn’t relax until he was locked in the drunk tank.

The sheriff considered his next move. He kept a spare gun in his office. Streng didn’t want to risk moving Bernie without being armed, but if he left him in the Jeep he could climb out the broken front window and run away. Streng decided he’d put Bernie’s seat belt on; it’d be impossible for him to escape without using his hands.

Streng kept his eyes on Bernie’s eyes and slowly reached for the belt. This required Streng to lean between the seats, exposing his face and neck to Bernie’s few remaining teeth. The farther he reached, the closer he got, until they were face to face. He smelled Bernie’s breath, metallic and hot. Bernie’s eyes were dark brown, almost black, and betrayed nothing. If eyes were the windows to the soul, this man had none.

What turns a person into a monster like this? Training? Some horrible event in his past? Genetics? How does a man lose his humanity?

Streng felt around Bernie’s hips for the seat belt but couldn’t find it. He’d have to lower his eyes to look. It would take only a second or two. What could happen in a second or two?

“Fuck that,” Streng said. He withdrew his hand, grabbed the Ka-Bar knife, and stepped out of the Jeep. Then he opened up the rear door and put the blade tight against Bernie’s throat, revealing a gnarled mass of pink scar tissue at his collar line.

“You move, you die,” he said.

He located the seat belt, pulled it around the pyro, and locked it in place.

“He burned me,” Bernie said, startling Streng. “Daddy did it, to make me stop playing with matches.”

Streng pulled away from him and said, “I really don’t care.”

Bernie went on. “He put my—my arm—on the stove, and he … held it there. I had to count, count to ten. I keep seeing it. I keep feeling it.”

Streng walked back to the front seat. He dug the office keys out of his glove compartment and picked up the McDonald’s bag full of Bernie’s belongings from the passenger-seat floor.

Bernie said, “I don’t, I really don’t, want to remember. Stop it, Daddy! Stop hurting me!” Bernie’s eyes pleaded with Streng. “Make it stop.” Then he began to shake and moan, tears forming ski trails in the blood on his cheeks.

“We can’t control what happens to us,” Streng said, recalling something his father used to say. “Only how we react to what happens.”

Dad had been a lumberjack. He’d been deep in the woods, scouting virgin forest, when a tree fell and pinned his leg. He had his hunting knife with him and spent two days drinking rainwater and hacking away at the tree and the ground. Neither one gave way. So on the third day he went to work on his leg. Streng remembered his father telling the story, about trying not to scream while he did it, for fear of attracting coyotes, and how the bone wouldn’t cut so he had to use a large rock to break it. He crawled three miles through the woods, during a terrible storm, and when he finally made it to safety the first thing out of his mouth was to ask for a beer.

Dad wasn’t bitter about it. In fact, as soon as he was well enough he went back to the tree and cut a section from it, from which he carved a wooden leg. Then he opened a bar in Safe Haven and named it Stumpy’s, which thrived until his death years ago.

If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Another of his father’s optimistic expressions. Dad was always quoting those. Streng didn’t know if he’d have the guts to do what his old man did, and then the bravery to carry on, but he hoped so. He also hoped he’d never have to find out.

Bernie, however, didn’t seem cut from the same cloth.

“CHARGE!” Bernie screamed, straining against the seat belt. “I NEED CHARGE! MAKE THE MEMORY GO AWAY!”

Streng took that as his cue to leave. The Water Department, like every other building he’d passed on the way over, had no electricity and was dark as death. Streng found one of Bernie’s lighters in the sack and flipped it on, using it to light his way. He opened the glass front door and limped past the secretary’s desk, down a tiled hall, to the unisex washroom. He caught his reflection in the mirror and wasn’t surprised to see he looked like hell. The orange light, and the flickering shadows, made Streng think of cavemen for some reason, primeval campfires from long ago.

Streng set the high-tech lighter on the sink with the catch depressed so it stayed on, and he unbuckled his holster and pants. Taking them off brought sparks of pain, sparks that became full-blown forest fires when he made himself urinate. The dark brown color reinforced Streng’s conviction that he needed to get to a hospital.

He flushed, then used the sink to splash water on his face and neck. He also washed his groin, ashamed he’d wet himself earlier. Part of him knew that it wasn’t his fault—any healthy young buck would have pissed having his kidney mangled. But a louder, meaner part told him to get used to it, because he was an old man who would soon be in diapers.

Streng told that louder, meaner part to shut up.

He picked up the torch and his stained pants and walked in underwear and socks to his office, two doors down. Streng tried the phone on his desk. Everything he dialed resulted in a busy signal. He had similar results with his cell.

The sheriff wasn’t surprised. Something big was happening, and if the bad guys didn’t kill the phone lines, there was a chance the good guys had done it to make sure no word of what was happening leaked out. Bless our government and their cover-your-ass policy.

In his closet he had an extra pair of slacks. No extra underwear, but he’d live with that. He stripped off his boxer shorts, set the dirty clothes on a shelf, and pulled on the fresh khakis. On his desk was a bottle of Tylenol. He dry-swallowed three. Then he unlocked his desk drawer and removed a .357 Colt Python and a partial box of ammo. Streng knew it was loaded, but decades of being around firearms made him check anyway.

He also hunted for and found his Mini Fry stun gun in the drawer—the same size and shape as a pack of cigarettes, and it delivered 900,000 brain-scrambling volts. Streng flipped the side switch and the battery indicator glowed green.

Back at the closet, Streng strapped on a holster for the Colt and a nylon fanny pack that Sal bought him for his sixtieth birthday. Streng had refused to accept the gift, calling it a “man purse.” Sal insisted, saying that since Streng was now an old fart he needed something to carry all of his medication around. They laughed, drank too much, and Streng hung it in this closet and forgot about it. Now he snapped it onto his waist and thought about Sal as he filled it with the ammo, the Ka-Bar, the stun gun, Bernie’s lighters, Bernie’s container of Charge capsules,