After Darkness Fell Read Online Free Page A
hear another vehicle coming this way?”
I didn’t want to think about that, but I was glad she’d asked. “Get behind the truck, hit the dirt, and be ready to open up if the vehicle slows down.”
“Where will you be?”
“Right beside you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Any questions about what we do if someone’s hiding in this wagon?”
She shrugged. “I was just gonna blow them away—unless you don’t want me to.”
“Just make sure I’m not in the line of fire when you do.”
“Then make sure you’re out of the way before I start shooting.”
I wanted to smile. “I’ll try to remember that, thanks.”
***
Together, we crept alongside the truck, one cautious step at a time, our gaze fixed on the dirt-smeared windshield. My heart did a drum roll. Twenty years had gone by since my old Army days, when I handled riot control in Little Odessa, hunted down terrorist cells in Pakistani Brighton, and watched for illegals behind a barricade of sand bags near the Arizona Border.
Back then, I’d killed terrorists, suicide bombers, snipers, illegals working for the drug cartels, and innocents caught in the line of fire. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, attributing my actions to duty, love of country and the rationalization that if I didn’t kill the enemy, the enemy would kill me. Even so, the act of killing had darkened my spirit, and I promised myself that once I was discharged, I would never kill anyone again.
In spite of my promise, I’d killed more than a dozen people in the last few months. Each killing had been necessary for my survival, as well as the survival of Reed and Fields. But even though these killings were completely justified, my spirit continued to darken just as it had twenty years earlier.
Fields kept the .45 trained on the windshield of the station wagon as I crept closer. Due to the dirt and dust covering a good portion of the glass, it was impossible to see inside. This made me wonder if the two had purposely darkened the windows. This could mean they’d been doing some nasty things.
The .357 was a heavy, cumbersome revolver, and often required both hands even for a large man. It delivered a substantial kick, and unless the cylinder was loaded with .38 bullets, the best way of maintaining control was to support the wrist of your firing hand with the palm of your non-firing hand.
Since I had to pull open the passenger door, I didn’t have the luxury of keeping both hands on the gun. As a precaution, I mashed my upper arm tightly against my side for more stability. Taking a deep breath, I reached out, grasped the door handle and yanked it open.
The stench of marijuana, cigarette smoke and stale beer assaulted my nostrils.
The empty interior sneered at me.
The automatic held straight out, Fields moved closer. She pulled open the driver’s door as I stuck my head inside and had a quick look at the interior. Food and candy wrappers, as well as empty beer cans, covered the floor. The dash ashtray overflowed with butts. Plastic bags of what looked like marijuana sat in a heap on the console. The back seat was covered with bundles of clothing. Canned goods and boxes of cereal and other foodstuffs lay in a pile behind the back seat.
I went around to the back of the wagon and lowered the tailgate. Three Styrofoam coolers sat behind the seat. A large open cardboard box sat by itself, toward the tailgate. Curious, I moved closer for a better look.
The box was crammed with hair—and strips of bloody flesh.
Scalps ?
I thought of Carla and her collection of severed penises. This discovery made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
Fields came around. “What’s wrong?”
I just shook my head.
She moved closer; her eyes grew. “ My God! ” She pulled back and turned away. “Those two actually were psychos.”
“Looks like it.”
“Well, at least there were only two of them.”
I didn’t want to voice my opinion that there might have been more, or that
I didn’t want to think about that, but I was glad she’d asked. “Get behind the truck, hit the dirt, and be ready to open up if the vehicle slows down.”
“Where will you be?”
“Right beside you.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Any questions about what we do if someone’s hiding in this wagon?”
She shrugged. “I was just gonna blow them away—unless you don’t want me to.”
“Just make sure I’m not in the line of fire when you do.”
“Then make sure you’re out of the way before I start shooting.”
I wanted to smile. “I’ll try to remember that, thanks.”
***
Together, we crept alongside the truck, one cautious step at a time, our gaze fixed on the dirt-smeared windshield. My heart did a drum roll. Twenty years had gone by since my old Army days, when I handled riot control in Little Odessa, hunted down terrorist cells in Pakistani Brighton, and watched for illegals behind a barricade of sand bags near the Arizona Border.
Back then, I’d killed terrorists, suicide bombers, snipers, illegals working for the drug cartels, and innocents caught in the line of fire. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, attributing my actions to duty, love of country and the rationalization that if I didn’t kill the enemy, the enemy would kill me. Even so, the act of killing had darkened my spirit, and I promised myself that once I was discharged, I would never kill anyone again.
In spite of my promise, I’d killed more than a dozen people in the last few months. Each killing had been necessary for my survival, as well as the survival of Reed and Fields. But even though these killings were completely justified, my spirit continued to darken just as it had twenty years earlier.
Fields kept the .45 trained on the windshield of the station wagon as I crept closer. Due to the dirt and dust covering a good portion of the glass, it was impossible to see inside. This made me wonder if the two had purposely darkened the windows. This could mean they’d been doing some nasty things.
The .357 was a heavy, cumbersome revolver, and often required both hands even for a large man. It delivered a substantial kick, and unless the cylinder was loaded with .38 bullets, the best way of maintaining control was to support the wrist of your firing hand with the palm of your non-firing hand.
Since I had to pull open the passenger door, I didn’t have the luxury of keeping both hands on the gun. As a precaution, I mashed my upper arm tightly against my side for more stability. Taking a deep breath, I reached out, grasped the door handle and yanked it open.
The stench of marijuana, cigarette smoke and stale beer assaulted my nostrils.
The empty interior sneered at me.
The automatic held straight out, Fields moved closer. She pulled open the driver’s door as I stuck my head inside and had a quick look at the interior. Food and candy wrappers, as well as empty beer cans, covered the floor. The dash ashtray overflowed with butts. Plastic bags of what looked like marijuana sat in a heap on the console. The back seat was covered with bundles of clothing. Canned goods and boxes of cereal and other foodstuffs lay in a pile behind the back seat.
I went around to the back of the wagon and lowered the tailgate. Three Styrofoam coolers sat behind the seat. A large open cardboard box sat by itself, toward the tailgate. Curious, I moved closer for a better look.
The box was crammed with hair—and strips of bloody flesh.
Scalps ?
I thought of Carla and her collection of severed penises. This discovery made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
Fields came around. “What’s wrong?”
I just shook my head.
She moved closer; her eyes grew. “ My God! ” She pulled back and turned away. “Those two actually were psychos.”
“Looks like it.”
“Well, at least there were only two of them.”
I didn’t want to voice my opinion that there might have been more, or that
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