Through the Storm(21)

Drake entered the living room and sat on the couch. He remembered more than once rolling his eyes at his father’s preparations. Thanks, Dad, for all you did, but please come home.

With the rifle across his lap, he continued to read the orange binder until his eyes drooped and the paragraphs blurred into incomprehensible lines. The folder dropped to his lap.

He rested his eyes and pondered a thousand questions. Would his dad and brother ever return? How could he guard the farm alone? How much food did he have?

The tick of a nearby clock faded into dreams of family and friends together during better times.

In the dream, Gruff growled.

Drake struggled to open heavy eyes.

Gruff edged toward the front window. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he growled low.

Clutching the rifle, Drake jumped to his feet.





Day Three

Lebanon, Oregon, Tuesday, September 6th

Clutching his pistol, Neal struggled to see in the predawn twilight. Ginger strained against her paracord leash, pulling the thin strand along his hand. Neal gripped with both hands to stop the dog, which continued to bark in the direction of the rapid gunfire. Neal scurried to a nearby tree, pulling the dog along behind him.

After a few minutes of rapid-fire shooting, silence returned to the darkness.

Neal waited in the trees for greater visibility that arrived with the morning, gray and silent, like death itself.

A dozen bloodstained bodies marred the green of the meadow. Neal scanned the tree line for the attackers and noticed a lone woman with brunette hair creep into the open. She took a few cautious steps then ran to a body.

“No!” She cradled the body. “Don’t be dead!”

Caught up in the tragedy, Neal watched for several moments. “Come on, Ginger, it’s time to leave.” He slid the shotgun over his shoulder and grabbed his backpack. Before leaving, he decided to do a quick check for wounded and then hurry north. He jogged out of the trees in the direction of the nearest body.

Ten yards away the woman continued to sob.

Ginger sniffed at the corpse, but Neal didn’t require a close examination. Several crimson stains marred the chest, and a nasty gash tore into the skull. Neal barely slowed before moving on. Next, he came upon a blonde woman with a single wound. He checked for a pulse but found none.

Altogether, Neal examined two men, the woman, and a boy younger than his son Drake. All were dead. None had weapons.

Neal walked to the weeping woman. Her long brunette hair hung half over her face and blood stained her clothes where she cradled the man. “Can I help?” Neal asked.

She rocked back and forth, crying softly.

Because of the closeness in age, he guessed the man was her husband. Having lost his own wife to violence, Neal understood this kind of hurt. His gut twisted in empathy. Resolving to check on her again before he left the area, Neal walked a few yards away to the cluster of corpses. Eight bodies formed a rough circle near the smoldering remains of a campfire. Ginger sniffed each body as they walked around the group. These were the leather-jacketed bikers who had strolled into the camp last night and here, in this haphazard circle, they made their last stand.

Earlier, he had noticed several with weapons, but now there were none. The speed and apparent surprise suggested a coordinated attack. The hair stood on the back of Neal’s neck. The five scattered bodies were noncombatants caught in the crossfire. The gang probably had been sitting together around the fire when the attack began. They would have tried to defend themselves but barely had a chance to move before being mowed down. Who had mounted such a quick, effective attack? Neal didn’t want to find out.

He jogged to the woman, still cradling the body. “I’m sorry about what happened to him, but I really think you should leave before whoever did it comes back.”

For several moments she continued rocking, but then her face twisted into a wild grin. She looked toward Neal with blank, expressionless eyes and laughed, long and low.

Neal pulled on Ginger’s leash and silently backed away. Had grief led to insanity or was her mind already rattled? He pulled again on the leash, turned, and jogged north toward the forest edge. There he stopped when he heard a now unusual noise—vehicles.

Several military trucks, pickups, and vans rolled to a sudden stop along two sides of the area. Men, most in uniform but some without, poured into the meadow.

“Halt! Put your hands up!”

*

Chelan County, Washington, Tuesday, September 6th

“You want the bike, you can have it.” Conner eased away from the man.

“Oh, I want it. That backpack looks nice, too, and your jacket. Ease that rifle off your shoulder and lower it to the ground. Then take off your jacket and step away.”

Still trying to decide what to do, Conner raised one hand toward the rifle and took another step back.

“If you don’t do nothing stupid, you might live.” The man waved the pistol. “Come on, hurry up. I don’t have all day.” His eyes focused on something near Conner. “Is that another bike? Is there someone else?” He glanced from side-to-side.

“No, I’m the only one here.” Conner hoped Madison wouldn’t return.

“You’re lying.”

Madison rose from the grass behind the thief and wound her arm like a windmill.

He shook the pistol at Conner. “I should kill—”