HOMELAND: Falling Down (Part 1 of the HOMELAND Series) Read online

  He eased from Angie’s side.

  “Where are you going?” she whispered.

  “To get some water. I’ll be right back. Go back to sleep.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Okay,” she said softly.

  As he slipped from Angie’s side, the predawn chill washed over his bare skin, shocking his system like a leap into an icy lake. He grabbed his clothes. They were cold and damp. The heater had burned out before they were dry.

  He clenched his jaw as his got dressed to keep his chattering teeth from waking Angie. His arm ached. Eduardo examined the bullet wound Kaafi had stitched. It didn’t look good. It was red, swollen, and warm to the touch. Another day or two and it would be full of puss. He hoped the farm house’s owners had antibiotics. The stuff they used on the animals would suite him fine at this point.

  He set his flashlight on the ground next to Angie, grabbed the empty water bottles, and barely made it out of the barn in time to keep from wetting his still damp pants. He steadied himself against the wall as steam rose from a seemingly endless stream of urine.

  He stumbled to the water pump and clumsily filled the plastic bottles as the faint glow heralding the dawn kissed the horizon. Shivering, he brought the water back to the stall then refilled the heater.

  As he struggled to keep his hands still enough to strike a match to light the wick, he remembered the tea kettle on the stove and smiled to himself.

  Satisfied that all in the stall was in order, Eduardo grabbed a bottle of water and set out for the farmhouse.

  He eased into the kitchen, poured the water into the kettle and lit the cooking eye under it. Next he looked through the cabinets until he found a box of tea bags and two mugs.

  Now for breakfast.

  He looked through the jars in the cupboard. Nothing but pickles. He’d gladly eat them if that was all there was, but would prefer something different given the choice.

  I wonder what’s in the cellar.

  Every farmhouse worth its salt had a cellar. He walked back outside and quickly found what he was looking for. One of the double doors leading under the house was already open. Eduardo carefully descended the steep steps, regretting leaving his flashlight behind.

  He wrinkled his nose. Something down there reeked. The unmistakable smell of dead animal filled his nostrils. Whatever it was had been dead for days. He tried to ignore it as he examined the jars neatly arranged on shelves along the walls. It was impossible to tell what they contained in the darkness. He futilely ran his hands over them and laughed, wondering what Angie would say if she could see him groping around in the darkness.

  He finally grabbed two jars that for some reason felt better than the others and started back for the stairs. His foot caught something as he turned, sending him to the dirt floor. The smell of pickles mixed with the stench of death as both jars smashed on the floor.

  Eduardo sat up and felt for what had tripped him. His hand found it. It was a shoe. A man’s shoe—still worn by its owner.

  He frantically lit a match. The frail light revealed two prone corpses, a man and a woman, lying side by side on the earthen floor.

  Eduardo’s trembling hand move close to their faces. It was the same old couple from the pictures in the living room. Their dead eyes stared at him from gentle ashen white faces. They’d both been shot in the head. They were tortured first from the look of it. Both were badly beaten and missing fingers.

  Something creaked above him. Footsteps. A man’s steps. Eduardo froze. A door opened then slammed shut as the man stepped outside. The stranger hacked up phlegm and spit it on the ground while he took a morning piss.

  He peeked from the cellar. The man stood just feet away. Eduardo couldn’t see his face, but meek morning light revealed a set of familiar black boots.

  A flicker of light caught Eduardo’s eye. It came from the barn. His flashlight twinkled through the gaps in the barn wall from where he left Angie.

  Turn it off, Angie. Turn it off!

  A hi-pitched whistle screamed from the kitchen.

  Shit.

  The tea kettle.

  Boots looked over his shoulder, still pissing. “What the hell?”

  Another man yelled from inside. “Shut that damn racket off!”

  “It wasn’t me!” boots yelled back.

  “I don’t give a shit! Turn it off!”

  Another man piped in. “Both of you shut up!”

  Eduardo ducked into the cellar as Boots turned toward the house.

  The kitchen door opened then slammed. More footsteps tramped in the yard.

  Eduardo stayed down until it was quiet, then peeked out to see the barn entrance open. A man’s silhouette walked in, shutting the door behind him.

  “Found it.” Angie pulled the Syrian-made scarf from Eduardo’s pack. She turned the flashlight off and held the scarf up to the heater, imagining how the warm fabric would feel around her neck. She couldn’t stop shivering in spite of the dry clothes she’d just put on.

  The stall door opened.

  Angie smiled and turned toward the door. “I’m borrowing your…” Her words stuck in her throat.

  A scruffy man in black boots stood in the doorway with a shotgun aimed at her face.

  “Strip,” he growled.

  “No.” Angie raised her chin in defiance.

  The barrel of the shotgun slammed against her cheek.

  “Do it.”

  The metallic tang of blood filled Angie’s mouth. She began to unbutton her shirt with trembling hands. “Please don’t do this.”

  Boots rubbed himself through his pants. “Keep going.”

  She stopped. “No. I won’t.”

  The barrel smashed into Angie’s head, sending her sprawling to the dirt. She struggled to her knees, trying not to pass out.

  “I said keep going.”

  “No,” she whimpered, then waited for the next blow to fall.

  It didn’t come.

  Boots made a wheezing, chocking sound.

  Angie looked up to see the three long, thin, metal tines of a pitchfork protruding from her assailant’s torso.

  The man tried to turn as blood poured from his mouth, but Eduardo held the pitchfork’s handle with both hands. He swung the gun behind him.

  Blam!

  The buckshot splintered the wall next to Eduardo’s head.

  Eduardo drove the handle forward, sending Boots tumbling over the kerosene heater. Flames leapt onto man, hay, and wood. Piercing screams filled the space as fire found the flesh of Angie’s attacker. The impaled man writhed on the ground like a mouse in a trap.

  Eduardo looked for the man’s gun, but the fire had already taken it along with his own backpack. He and Angie backed out of the stall, leaving it to the ravenous blaze.

  Smoke filled the barn. Shouts sounded from the house. Eduardo peeked outside to see three armed men running his way.

  He grabbed Angie’s hand. “Time to go.”

  They sprinted from the back door toward the wood line a hundred yards away as the sun crested the horizon. Flames filled the barn behind them. Eduardo hoped it would buy them enough time to escape.

  They reached the woods and kept running. The crack of a rifle and thud of lead against wood inches from his head told Eduardo they were spotted.

  Again they ran, unsure of their destination, instinct their only guide, darting through the bare autumn trees, lungs burning with exertion and icy air. They kept going for hours, running, walking, never stopping. They crossed streams, gravel roads, and open fields. Always moving.

  It was late afternoon when they came to an empty highway. Angie sank to her knees.

  “We can’t keep doing this,” she sobbed.

  “I know.” Eduardo sat with his back to a tree. His arm was throbbing now. So was his head.

  Angie was shivering again in spite of being on the go since sunrise.

  Eduardo felt her forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “You d-don’t look so g-good either.”

/>   He put his arms around her, but neither of them felt any warmer.

  Eduardo took stock of the situation. His backpack was gone. They had no food, water, weapons, or shelter. Both of them were sick and exhausted.

  It would be dark in a few hours. Neither of them would last the night.

  Was it cruel to push Angie again? What if they found another house? What if it was like the last one?

  Angie sank back into Eduardo and closed her eyes. He kissed her head as her trembling worsened. The thought of what could have happened to her at the farm chilled him deeper than the autumn wind.

  Would it be better to stay here and at least die in peace?

  He thought of the backpack and the shotgun. If he could have one of them right now, which would he would choose?

  An engine echoed in the distance. It sounded like a big diesel. It was on the highway, coming closer.

  He fought with himself as the rumbling grew louder, trying to decide whether or not to let it pass.

  He started to stand.

  “No.” Angie took his hand, her eyes still closed. “Let it go. Stay here with me. Let’s just go to sleep.”

  Eduardo got to his feet. “I’ll go see this one. If it doesn’t look good, I’ll come back and we’ll…go to sleep.”

  Angie gave a sleepy nod.

  Eduardo crouched at the edge of the woods and saw that it was more than one vehicle that approached. An armored MRAP escorted a convoy of sand-colored supply trucks. Black smoke poured from the stacks of the snaking column five-ton vehicles as cold wind whipped the olive green canvas coverings stretched over their backs.

  Eduardo stepped onto the road and waved his hands.

  “Stop! Help!”

  The lead vehicle ground to a halt fifty yards from him. The air brakes of the supply trucks squealed and hissed behind it. Troops poured from the convoy, aiming their rifles in all directions.

  “On the ground! Now!” a soldier shouted from the MRAP.

  “Help us! Please!” Eduardo replied.

  “I said down!”

  “Okay! Okay!” Eduardo slowly lowered himself until his face was on the asphalt.

  “Hands out!” the soldier ordered as he approached with a small team.

  The uniformed men surrounded Eduardo, their weapons raised at him. One soldier put a knee in Eduardo’s neck, pinning him down. Another bound his hands behind him with a plastic zip-tie then frisked him.

  “What are you doing out here?” barked the leader.

  “We had to run.” The soldier’s knee drove Eduardo’s jaw into the pavement, slurring his words. “Shome guys tried to kill ush. We have no plashe to go.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Jusht two.”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  “We’re cold and hungry. Pleash help ush.”

  “Where is the other? I won’t ask again.”

  Eduardo looked toward the woods. “She’sh over there.”

  The leader sent two men. “Bring her here.”

  The frisking soldier reported, “He’s clean, Sergeant.”

  “Okay, let him up.”

  The soldiers pulled Eduardo to his feet. The others returned, half carrying Angie, whose hands were bound as well.

  “Sorry for the harsh treatment,” the leader said, “It’s dangerous outside the wire. We gotta be careful.”

  “Can you help us?”

  “FEMA set up a refugee camp a few hours from here. We’re headed there now to deliver supplies. We can give you a ride if you want. If not, we can give you some food and water before we leave.”

  “We’ll come with you.”

  “You can ride in the back of my truck, but you’ll still be restrained and under armed guard.”

  “Strap me to the hood if you want. Just get us out of here.”

  The soldiers removed Eduardo and Angie’s restraints and helped them into the back of a cargo truck. They sat on the hard bench seat that ran along lengthwise down the side. A trooper climbed in after them and sat on the opposite seat. He cuffed the pair again—their hands to the front this time. He then gave each of them an MRE, a bottle of water, and a blanket.

  Engines roared to life up and down the convoy. The truck lurched forward, sending Angie into Eduardo’s side. The tarp covering them chattered in the cold wind as the vehicle picked up speed.

  Eduardo put a blanket around her. “It’s about to get a lot colder in here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s eat.” He helped Angie warm her MRE using the chemical heater packaged with each meal. The food was bland, but it felt wonderful going down. It was the first warm thing they’d eaten in days. He looked over at Angie. She had barely touched her food.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You need to eat.”

  She set the warm metal pouch of sustenance aside and leaned against him. “After I get some rest.” She closed her eyes. “I’m so tired.”

  The soldier watched them with weary eyes as icy wind howled through the canvas walls. Eduardo studied the young trooper’s face. He’d seen it hundreds of times. Different men, different countries, same face. A mixture a fatigue, longing, and dread. It was a glimpse behind the warrior’s mask of invulnerability worn in the light of day. It showed the weight of what he’d seen, what he’d lost, and what he feared to lose. It was the face of war.

  Angie let the truck rock her to sleep to the droning lullaby of tires humming on asphalt.

  Eduardo watched the world grow dark, wondering what awaited them at their destination. The road ahead was full of uncertainty, but it also held hope. It wasn’t much, but in that moment, shivering in the back of a noisy Army truck, it was enough for him.

  11

  Hank

  “No, Hank. You’re still too weak. Give yourself time to heal,” Peggy protested as Hank ambled across their living room toward the front door.

  “I wish I could.” Hank winced as he slipped on a pair of boots. He found it impossible to tie his shoes one-handed and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask for help—even from Betty. “The mayor has already negotiated away half the town’s food supply. If I don’t stop him, we’ll all starve by Christmas.”

  “Then let somebody else stop him.”

  “There is nobody else.” Hank tried to put on his coat. The garment slid past where his left arm used to be and fell across his back. “Dammit.”

  “Here. Let me help.” Betty reached out and pulled the garment into place.

  Hank grumbled, “Thanks.” He holstered his revolver. Like the boots, it was easier to operate with one hand. Unlike the newer magazine-fed models which required two hands to chamber a round, the revolver only required him to load it and pull the trigger.

  Betty took his face in her hands. “You can’t do it all yourself—no matter how bad you want to. Everybody needs help now and then.”

  “Where would I be without you?” Hank smiled.

  “I ask myself that every day. Speaking of…” Betty ran into the kitchen and returned with a haversack containing a thermos and a sandwich. She put the sack over his shoulder. “There. Now you can carry your lunch and still have a hand free.”

  “Just a minute ago you were begging me to stay.”

  “I knew it was no use, but I had to try.”

  He smiled and asked, “This sounds crazy, but I swear I heard a helicopter late last night. Did you hear anything?”

  “No. It was a dialysis day. I was dead to the world.”

  “Must’ve been dreaming. I’m gonna pay our honorable mayor a visit.”

  Betty kissed her husband. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Hank caressed Betty’s cheek. “Always.”

  *****

  Hank pulled into his parking space at the courthouse and walked across the railroad tracks to the mayor’s office. He found two of his own deputies standing guard outside the building’s entrance.

  “What are you two
doin’ here?” he asked.

  One of the deputies spoke up. “The mayor says he’s too important to go unprotected.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He started through the door.

  The deputy put up a hand to stop him. “You can’t take your pistol in there.”

  “What?”

  “No weapons allowed. Mayor Duncan’s orders.”

  “Mayor Duncan can kiss my ass.” He pushed the officer’s hand aside.

  Both men stepped in front of the sheriff, blocking the doorway. “Sorry, Sheriff. Mayor’s orders.”

  Hank look his men in the eyes. “So that’s how it is now.” He handed the pistol over. They stepped aside and let him pass.

  “Good to see you up and about, Sheriff,” Finbarr Duncan said from behind his desk as Hank stepped into his office.

  “It’s good to be back.” Hank noticed a woman sitting across from Finbarr. She wore a dark blue tactical uniform. The nametape on the right side of her chest read Sanger. The left one read FEMA.

  Hank nodded to her. “Mornin’ ma’am.”

  She smiled. “You southerners are so polite.”

  Finbarr said, “This is Agent Sanger from FEMA. She flew in last night.”

  Hank looked back to the agent. That explains the chopper.

  She stood held out her hand. “Lucy Sanger at your service. I’m with the government. I’m here to help.”

  12

  EDUARDO

  Angie wasn’t getting any better. The camp’s limited resources weren’t enough to stem the infection raging inside her. He could hear the pneumonia rattling in her lungs with each breath, making her a little weaker every day. She was slipping away.

  Eduardo sat in a plastic chair by Angie’s bed. He had barely left her side since they got here. He hadn’t shaved or bathed in days. He’d barely ate or slept. He had a bunk in one of the huge barracks tents across camp, but spent little time there. The camp was filthy and teemed with criminals and reprobates who had been respectable citizens a few weeks before.

  Angie shivered. The icy wind crept into the massive aid tent through gaps and under flaps, chilling the air in spite of the propane space heaters scattered about the space. Eduardo pulled Angie’s covers tight around her. He had asked for more blankets for her, but there were none to spare. He finally brought the one from his own bunk. He wasn’t sleeping much anyway.