CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Cathy nervously eyed the picture window, now barricaded with furniture piled high enough intruders would have to work very hard to enter the living room. Jenny caught her stare, her own eyes flickering to the ancient shotgun leaning against the wall nearby. Neither woman noticed that Josh picked at his food, rebelliously stirring the frank and beans mixture with a disinterested spoon. Only John seemed at ease, despite eating his meal with a deer rifle draped casually across his knees. Cathy knew he must have worked up an appetite hauling plywood from the barn and wondered how he’d find the strength to lift it.

  So far, they had only succeeded in boarding up the back door and most of the downstairs windows. The bay window in the living room had proven tricky, with so much glass John would have to fashion a frame upon which he could fasten the plywood. Without power tools, a half-assed effort was all they’d succeeded in, even with Cat’s help. Now that she knew of his cancer, she offered help whenever she could, leaving Jenny to watch over Josh. But she regretted the time away from her boy and his attitude reflected her inattention.

  “Eat your dinner, Joshie,” she said.

  “I don’t want frank and beans,” he replied, shoving the bowl away and sulking in his chair. “I want SpaghettiOs.”

  “We’re out of SpaghettiOs,” she said. “Tonight we have franks and beans.”

  “I won’t eat them,” the boy argued, “I hate them.” He looked up at his mother with eyes narrowed and filled with a rage similar to Clint’s. At this she shuddered. “I want to go outside and play.”

  “You can’t,” she explained, “the snow isn’t safe to play in yet. Now eat your beans and I’ll read another story before bed.”

  In a flash his defiant hand struck the bowl, sending it flying across the dining room and crashing against the wall. He pushed back from the table and took off running up the stairs, slamming a door behind him. Cat moved to clean up the mess but paused, staring at the puddle of beans on the floor and the stain upon the wall, marveling at how quickly their lives had turned.

  “I’ve got this,” Jenny said, shooing the young mother off to tend to her boy. “He needs his mom.”

  Cat nodded and turned to follow, but then collapsed defeated into her chair.

  “It’s okay, dear,” John promised. “He’s young and doesn’t understand the limitations we’re under. He’ll adjust, and soon he’ll find new joy as civilization reemerges.”

  But she knew better and shook her head to the contrary. “No,” she said, “this has been too much for him. All he’s experienced is fear and violence since the night of the missiles.”

  “It’s been hard on all of us,” Jenny agreed with her sweet smile, “but we’ll adjust. We’ve enough canned foods to last us several months, and John and I will finish boarding the windows in the morning while you spend time with Josh.” A quick glance at the shotgun leaning against the wall betrayed her own worries that the next morning would be too late.

  “Something else happened on the night of the attack,” Cat admitted, causing the older couple to turn. She hadn’t expected to reveal this detail to the Klingensmiths, but truth poured out. “That night,” she said, “while we were on the lake, I killed his father.” Jenny paused only slightly, then continued to clean up the mess. John did not appear surprised and smiled as gently as a patient father waiting for her to finish the story.

  “Clint was a psychopath,” she explained quietly, “raised by his father with an insatiable desire to kill living things. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against hunting, but he was different. He’d kill everything he could from waiting for hours to shoot a squirrel to picking off songbirds only because they were difficult targets. Sometimes he’d aim only to wound the creatures and then take them away to the woodshed. One day I followed him and saw things I never want to repeat.”

  “You believe he moved on to humans?” John asked.

  “I know he did. While most men join the military in search of a leg up on life or out of patriotic duty, Clint only wanted to move on to a different kind of prey. But instead of growing bored or even satisfied in his curiosity, he returned a darker and more violent man. I know he crossed over then, to become the killer he was. After he nearly killed me, I finally escaped with Josh and hid out. I should have run farther,” she lamented.

  “I wonder what sparked his fascination for violence?” Jenny asked.

  “It was his father. On the night of the… the missiles… he admitted watching his father kill his mother. The old man chained her to cinderblocks and killed her like he aimed to do to me, with father tossing mother over the side of the boat while the son watched.”

  John remembered the block around her feet the day they’d met and winced. “He meant to do the same in front of Josh. If that’s so, then you were justified by killing a monster.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed, “but in the end I fear he’s won. Josh witnessed one of his parents killed that night and will never be the same. I’ll always be blamed, because only one side of the story will be told.”

  “No,” John agreed, “it won’t be told and he’ll never understand.” The dying professor rose and moved to help his wife with the chores. “So you must do your best to shield him from further harm.”

  Her eyes returned to the shotgun, idly tracing the outline of Clint’s pistol in her pocket. She had four rounds, hardly enough to protect from intruders. Further harm was no longer an option, not with bad men on their way. She admitted, “I enjoyed it, John. I actually enjoyed killing the son of a bitch.”

  “Although that may feel like a problem, dear, it’s not something you should be ashamed of,” Jenny comforted. “Sometimes we confuse the rush of adrenaline with satisfaction. The fact that you’re worried about the feeling is proof you have a conscience—and that separates you from him.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” she admitted. Thinking of her sister’s body lying in the tub of her apartment she added, “I wish he would come back to life so I can kill him again—once for every life or happy memory he’s stolen from Josh and me.”

*****

  Loud noises and the sounds of breaking glass rang from the barn. Josh cried, refusing to get under the bed. No matter what Cat promised, the boy wouldn’t budge so she pleaded.

  “You have too,” she begged. “Bad men are coming, and you have to stay down. Don’t get out until I tell you!”

  He set his jaw the way she had seen his father so many times before. Now the second time she really saw a shadow of Clint in her son. The look frightened Cat, sending chills down her spine.

  “I want to help fight. They can’t be worse than Daddy!”

  She sat on the bed, grabbing his arms and pulling him close. “Oh, honey,” she soothed, “these men are far worse.”

  The sound of gunfire outside caused them both to jump. This time she didn’t have to coax him into hiding, and he slid under the bed on his own. As the shots rang out, Cat heard more glass break in an upstairs window. Josh began to whimper, a low sound, nearly muted if it wasn’t so high in pitch. His mother ran from the room clutching Clint’s pistol with both hands. She would use it if needed. She’d killed before.

  More shots rang out, three in rapid succession, and bullets ripped through the door in front of Cathy as she ran. By the time she reached the living room, Jenny was there, but John was not. The artist with once smiling eyes held the old shotgun with fierceness and determination, facing the door and crouched behind the overturned sofa. She positioned behind it as if to use it for cover.

  “Where’s John?” Cat asked.

  “He’s upstairs in the other guest room. He heard the glass break and went up to investigate.”

  Cathy’s blood ran cold. “They were shooting up that room!”

  Jenny nodded, horror filling her eyes as quickly as the tears and Cat left her, sprinting up the stairs to check.

  She pushed the door open slowly, afraid of what she’d find. John was there, leaning against the wall and clutching the rifle, but his neck was bloodied. It dripped as he held his left shoulder with a scarlet right hand. The bullet had taken him while he lay atop the bed, peering out the window like a hopeful sniper.

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  “John!” she pleaded, “What did you do?”

  “It was too dark for me to see,” he explained between coughs, “and they had a bead on me for sure.”

  “What do we do?” Cat asked.

  “Surrender, give over whatever they demand.”

  “How do we know they won’t kill us?”

  “Because we haven’t injured any of them. They’ve no reason for revenge.” John appeared so weak, struggling to keep his eyes open. Shock was setting in. Cat knew that even minor wounds were severe once it does. She offered an arm and he tried to latch on but failed, so she grabbed his with both hands and hoisted him to his feet. Once he was steady, she retrieved the rifle.

  “Let’s get you downstairs,” she said, leading him slowly toward the door.

  Another shot rang out and John slumped to the ground, a dead weight slipping through her fingers as he fell.

  “No!” Cat pleaded. “Wake up,” she pleaded. “John!” Two more shots whizzed by, popping sounds echoing in her ears and over her head. She left his body lying there, scurrying like a coward into the hall.

  Loud banging followed by a scream sent her moving faster. Once she entered the hallway, she rounded the landing and emerged downstairs.

  Jenny trained her weapon on the front door. Her hands trembled as the entryway pounded with the force of intruders working their way inside.

  With a gentle hand, Cat took the weapon from the artist—better that her hands continue to paint with other mediums besides blood, and leave the killing to the killer. But will they be easier than Clint?

  She leaned the rifle against the couch, deciding they would be indeed.

  “We don’t want to fight,” Cat shouted. “And we’ve nothing to take. John said if we give up what we have you’ll take it and leave.”

  The pounding paused momentarily, and she imagined a quiet conversation on the other side of the frame. What are they waiting for, she thought, why are they toying with us?

  In that moment glass broke behind her. Two men wearing tactical fatigues burst through the bay window, shoving aside the hutch blocking their way. Cat spun and instinct took over. Her finger flinched and the ancient shotgun exploded with both barrels, sending the men flying backward. She fumbled with the catch, rocking the barrel forward to remove the shells. Jenny tossed her two more and she shoved them in, slamming the weapon shut just in time as another entered.

  She faltered.

  What am I doing? Cathy asked herself, realizing she shot two men.

  “Put the gun down, dear,” the newcomer said, grinning that disgusting curl of the lips she hated so much. She felt it more than saw it, just like when she danced at Pussy Galore’s. She hated him instantly, and his face morphed into Clint’s before her eyes. She blew the disgusting grin from his face.

  One of the fallen men, head entirely concealed except for his eyes—had risen to his feet and held his own weapon aloft. The blast took him full in the chest. The front door slammed open and she whirled, dropping the shotgun and pulling Clint’s handgun from her waistband. She pulled the trigger wildly, spraying the entryway and praying silently for contact. Two more intruders fell, but the sickening click of the hammer told her she was out of bullets.

  Jenny had retrieved the shotgun by then, reloading and waving it expectantly at the open door. Cat gripped the empty pistol and both women waited. One breath. Two. No one came. Then Josh screamed from upstairs and Cat’s instinct begged her to run and see to her son. But somehow her feet froze in position. The sound of scraping on the wood above informed her there were other entrances inside the farmhouse. She gasped with fear.

  “Put down your weapons,” a voice ordered from above. “We’re coming down and I’ve got no problem killing the boy.

  Teams of two, Clint’s voice echoed in her mind. A pair from the front, a team in the flank, and infiltration from above. Clint had often talked about his time during the war, bragging how his squad would enter houses the same way in Iraq. Of course, in his stories he was always the hero and the defenders had no chance to resist.

  That changes today, she promised herself. We will resist!

  “Come down,” she yelled up the stairs, “and we’ll surrender!”

  More shuffling and Josh emerged, eyes wide with such terror it melted his mother’s heart. The man over his shoulder held him tight, ducked behind the child like a shield as they inched forward. There was no sign of his partner. Cat drew his attention away from Jenny.

  “Let him go,” she pleaded, holding the pistol loosely, ready to place it on the floor, not revealing it was empty. It worked.

  His eyes focused, tasting her with lustful revenge over his fallen comrades. He moved just slightly, still behind Josh but angled enough to cover either woman. Cathy tried not to look directly at the deer rifle only inches from her grasp.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he called to Jenny without looking away. Though his eyes were fixed on Cat, he’d seen the older woman on his flank. “If you pull that trigger, you die tonight.”

  Then a gunshot resounded from the window, causing Jenny to whirl. Cat refused to take her eyes from the man behind Josh, grabbing the deer rifle and training it on the man’s head as he turned to search for the sniper outside the window. Her first shot struck his temple, sending him flying backward while the boy tumbled down the last few steps.

  “Stay down, Josh!” she yelled.

  He lay motionless, afraid to move.

  Another bullet echoed from the doorway, followed by Jenny’s shotgun. Cat turned. The final attacker slumped, struck in in the chest. His eyes stared blankly at Jenny as her breast bled from his doing.

  “No!” Cathy cried, kneeling beside her son, but watching the artist. She blinked sad eyes which no longer smiled. They stared up the stairs, searching for her husband.

  “John’s gone, Jenny,” Cat explained. “They killed him.”

  With a knowing nod, Jenny joined her husband in death.

  “Who’s left inside?” a voice called from the doorway.

  Cathy refused to answer, cradling her son on the bottom step.

  “Ma’am?” a kind voice asked. “My boys and I are gonna get you out of here,” the man said. “My name’s Mike.”

  “Crazy Mike,” Cat whispered from her trance.

  “Some call me that, but it’s just Mike. Do you have any bags?”

  “Upstairs,” she replied, “second door on the left.”

  “Paw!” the voice of a teen urged. “There’s more coming up the ridge!”

  “Her bags are upstairs,” Mike said, “grab those and I’ll get her and the boy away! Meet me at the farm!” He reached out a kindly hand and Cathy took it, never taking her eyes from the sweet artist and her sorrowful eyes.

  So much beauty and kindness had died with Jenny Klingensmith, as both she and John had been taken from Cat and her son the blink of an eye. Two wonderful people—so sweet, so kind, so giving... so dead after a brief exchange of senseless violence. Now, in the care of a man she only knew as a crazy prepper, Cathy Ferguson and her son had no choice but to risk their chances on strangers.

  They followed him at a dead sprint through a nuclear winter wonderland, toward a farm her late friends had likened to the Ruby Ridge compound. Her ears pounded with every step as she ran into the woods, half dragging Josh.

  “Hurry,” she whispered as he abruptly stopped, staring off into the tree line.

  “Keep him moving,” Mike urged.

  “He’s a child, and he’s scared!” she scolded. Despite saving their lives earlier, this man deserved none of her appreciation. What was he doing, lurking outside the living room window in the first place? she wondered. “What is it Joshie?” she asked her child.

  He pointed a tiny finger toward the bare trunks and branches, just as five figures emerged.

  “Get down!” Mike shouted.

  His sons were trotting up from behind and dropped Cat’s bags in the snow before diving for cover. Their guns immediately came up, covering the approaching figures. One of the newcomers raised his rifle over his head using both hands, indicating no threat.

  “It’s only Fred!” The older of Mike’s boys realized. The others jumped to their feet and reclaimed the discarded bundles.

  “What have you found?” Mike asked.

  “We popped two gang members slinking around the property line,” the newcomer said. “I’m pretty sure that’s all of them, but we’ll wait till y’all are clear before following you back to the farm.”

  “Bloods or Crips?”

  “These were neither. Looked like Laotians from the next farm over. Probably scavenging whatever the Nature Boys left.”

  “Nature Boys?” Cat’s mind swam at all the information. Too much had happened in such a short amount of time, and she found all these factions confusing. “Who are the Nature Boys?”

  “I’ll explain back at the ranch,” Mike promised.

  “No,” she insisted. “Tell me now! I killed men back there, and I want to know who they were!”

  “Nature Boys are white supremacists. A militia with a mind to set things back a few hundred years if they get the chance,” he said. Then, turning to Fred he asked, “John and Jenny’s stores are full, and I’m sure they’d want us to get it before anyone else. Can you and your boys handle it all without a sled?”

  The man nodded. “We can manage.”

  “Good. My boys will help. Take the overland trail and meet us there.” He turned to Cat with eyes less crazy than she’d expected. “Ma’am, I know we just met, but I’m gonna need you to trust me tonight. Our walk isn’t far, but with you and your son it’ll be difficult enough. Can I get your word you’ll both keep quiet along the way?”

  She nodded.

  “Then follow closely and don’t wander off.” He pointed to their bags in his son’s hands. “And I’ll need you to carry your own things, since my boys are staying behind with Sam.”

  She nodded again. “Thank you,” she said, “for saving my son’s life.”

  “It was nothing,” Mike assured. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about John and Jenny. I liked them both.”

  Cat had nothing to say in reply, and followed Crazy Mike willingly.