Infernal

Charlie maintained his vigil beside the bed, dozing off and on, aware enough to respond if he sensed any sign of distress from the human female while dreaming doggy dreams of chasing rabbits, rolling in endless fields of honeysuckle and jasmine, and huge piles of meaty bones just for him.

The night had passed taking the storm with it. The cold front had moved off to the northeast and was currently dumping snow on Nebraska and southern Iowa, leaving a warm front in its wake that, as the sun rose, melted snow and ice from roofs and gutters, tree branches and power lines—those that had managed to stay aloft—the soft rataplan of runoff echoing pleasantly in Charlie’s sensitive ears. Kansas would recover as it had countless times in the aftermath of severe thunderstorms and tornadoes that visited the state each year in succession.

Charlie’s human had gone outside after rising from the couch in the living room where he’d slept the night before. The power had gone out again (Charlie knew this because the low hum that usually travelled inside the walls and out through the square, wall mounted boxes he wasn’t allowed to paw at or even lick, had stopped) and his human had gone out to where the food came from to start it up again. Presumably it needed to be fed occasionally too.

Charlie lifted his head as the woman on the bed made a soft sound and shifted her position. She was sleeping now, healing. Her hurt place was getting better. His human had tended it with care before going outside, removing the funny white cloth he’d placed on it, all full of blood and bad smelling liquid, and replacing it with new cloth that would catch any more that might come out. Charlie didn’t use a cloth when he had a hurt. He licked it—if he could reach it—until it went away. He would lick the woman’s hurt if his human would let him, but he understood that humans did not always do things the right way.

A new sound, low and powerful, came from outside the house. Charlie stood and cocked his head to one side, trying to identify it. It was like the sound the big black horse he and his human sometimes rode in made. Charlie liked riding in the big black horse, even if it was not an alive thing and made funny smells when they weren’t moving. When they were moving the wind blew in Charlie’s face and he could smell and taste many things. Humans, trees, grass, other dogs; all of it riding the wind that blew back Charlie’s ears and sometimes made his eyes water. Riding in the big black horse made Charlie happy.

But this horse sounded different. This horse sounded wrong.

Charlie padded into the living room trying to smell the horse as the hum in the walls started up again and the lights came on.A big whoosh like a huge bird passed over the house and the bedroom and living room windows crashed in, followed by a flash and a boom that lifted the dog off his feet and tossed him in the corner like a rag doll.

Richard had awakened that morning with a stiff neck from sleeping on the couch. There was an old trundle bed in the attic, but he hadn’t wanted to be that far away should his charge regain consciousness—likely terrified and confused—and navigating the steel frame bed and mattress set down the narrow stairs seemed more trouble than it was worth.

The power had gone out again. He’d left a light burning on the end table in case he needed to move swiftly from the living room to the bedroom—having tripped over some of Charlie’s rawhide bones and larger toys in the dark before, he had no desire to do so again—and the soft glow of the bulb had been absent when he scrubbed the sleep from his eyes and tossed back the comforter. He wasn’t surprised by the power loss. The generator only held enough fuel for about eight hours. He should have topped the tank off the evening before but hadn’t wanted to make another trip out into the storm.

The woman had been sleeping peacefully when he’d checked on her. She mumbled a few soft nothings as he changed her bandage—almost no blood this time and the wound had crusted around the edges; a sure sign it was healing—and checked her temperature. It was an even one-hundred; better by far than the evening before. He didn’t think she was out of the woods yet but believed she’d recover with time and more appropriate medical attention.

That taken care of, he’d patted Charlie on the head and praised him for being a good sentry.

“Hospitals should hire you, you know that?” he told the dog. “Maybe they’d even pay you. You could help out with the bills around here.”

He’d then let Charlie out to tend to his toilet before tending to his own and pulling on clothes suitable for the weather.

He’d checked his phones and laptop before going out. The lines were still down. He puzzled over the call or message that had come into the woman’s cell phone while his was still inoperable. He’d checked it after the failed attempt to access hers and found the same NO SIGNAL message. He decided she was on another, stronger network, but the question remained in the back of his mind, joining the long list of other unanswered questions already in residence.

The sun bedazzled his eyes as he stepped out the back door. It gleamed from every surface, coruscating from the icy coating on the garage, winking from the wreck of the pine tree to the ice shrouded bushes lining the property and shimmering from the rapidly melting snow at his feet. It was like standing at the center of some immense jewel.

The thermometer hanging by the back door read forty-four degrees. If the temperature stayed this high throughout the day, the snow would be all but gone by noon. He could have the woman in town by sunset, relinquishing her to proper medical personnel who could tend her much better than he.

There was bound to be police involvement. One didn’t turn up at a local hospital with a shooting victim and simply walk away. An investigation would follow and he would be questioned, perhaps detained. In the end, however, the woman would regain consciousness and give a statement that would exonerate him of wrong-doing. He wasn’t looking forward to the situation, but despite one notable run-in with the wrong side of the law in the past, Richard still had faith in the system.

In the garage, Richard used the old rotary siphon to pump fuel from a fifty-five gallon drum to the generator. The engine roared with a touch of a button and the overheads blinked to life in short sequence. Richard was cleaning the siphon with a shop towel when something droned by his ear with the sound of an angry insect. The Mustang’s windshield starred, a craze of cracks blooming on the passenger side like a small rose.

Richard jerked his head towards the door and saw a man in what looked like military arctic gear leveling a long barreled pistol at him. He was grinning like a hyena and lining up for another shot. He wouldn’t miss a second time.

Richard lashed out with the only weapon he had on hand. The siphon hose wasn’t long enough to cover the distance between them, and wasn’t much of a weapon in any event, but the fuel that flew from the end of the hose splattered the intruder’s face burning his eyes on contact and spoiling his aim. The round intended for Richard’s heart spanged through the Mustang’s grill and lodged in the engine block instead.

In times of stress and insurmountable danger most people’s first instinct, hardwired into the brain by thousands of years of psychological evolution, is to flee. Having lived in an environment where there was nowhere to run when danger arose, Richard turned to fight. He lowered his head and barreled into the intruder before he could adjust his aim and fire off another shot.

The headlong plunge carried them both out the door, air whoofing from the intruder’s lungs as they sprawled in the ice and slush in the back yard. Landing atop his opponent Richard delivered blow after blow to the man’s face, neck, and abdomen.

Unprepared for the ferocity of Richard’s counter-attack the intruder was momentarily stunned by the assault. He was three inches taller than Richard’s five-foot eleven frame and out-weighed him seventy pounds, however, and had little trouble muscling his way out from under, locking Richard in a leg hold around the waist and rolling him over as easily as a mean spirited child might flip a turtle on the roadside. His gun had flown into the snow when Richard struck him so he wrapped his hands around Richard’s throat and squeezed.

Richard grasped at the man’s hands, found a weakness at the pinky finger, and twisted it up and back. The finger snapped with the sound of a small branch breaking. The intruder grunted and pulled away only to deliver a stunning blow to the side of Richard’s head. He grasped Richard’s neck, closing the airway again.

The world swam away, the brilliant blue sky above dimming. Richard looked into the eyes of his attacker and saw no mercy there. Only that hyena’s grin as he choked the life from a complete stranger.

His heart crashing in his chest, Richard pulled at the hands that bound his throat like iron bands, pushed at the chin of the man grinning his lunatic grin and threw a blow to the neck that was shrugged off as one would shrug off the sting of an insignificant insect. Spots began blooming before Richard’s eyes, his vision darkening. His brain was shutting down his peripheral nervous system in an attempt to preserve oxygen.

Richard groped in the ice and slush around him. Found something thin and hard and brought it up against the side of the intruder’s face. The chunk of ice shattered harmlessly against his forehead.

He reached out again, hands fumbling through ice, snow, and mud, seeking something solid, something useful. He seized a round, semi-solid something and brought it up, this time into the intruder’s face, crushing it into that maniacal grin and upwards into his nose. The partially frozen dog turd ground against the man’s teeth, filled his mouth and nostrils, smeared across his forehead. He made a gaak sound, released Richard, and spat, his hands flying to his own throat as if he were the one now being strangled.

Richard dragged in a breath of the sweetest air he’d ever drawn. His throat burned, his lungs ached. His heart sped in his chest like a team of galloping horses. He thrust the sputtering man backwards and gained his knees, taking in great whoops of air as he did so.

The intruder, soldier, whatever he may be, was on his knees, head bent, trying to hawk dogshit from his nose and mouth. Richard punched him in his ear with everything he had, aiming for a spot just beyond the man’s head. The blow toppled the intruder onto his side. He grunted and rolled onto his back, eyes watering from gasoline, pain, and the smell of feces. The lunatic grin was gone, replaced by a grimace of revulsion. Richard punched him in the nose. Twice. The first blow broke cartilage and bone. The second sent a spray of blood and feces from his nostrils. The man howled, striking out at Richard’s legs as he gained his feet. Richard kicked the hand away and kicked him in the jaw as if he were punting from the fifty-yard line. There was a satisfying crunch and the man lay still.

A dim, dark part of Richard’s mind hoped he had killed him.

Richard spied the intruder’s pistol, a Heckler & Koch USP9 fitted with an AWC Abraxas Titanium suppressor lying a few feet away. He picked it up and unthreaded the suppressor, lightening the weapon’s weight and making it easier to conceal. He slipped the suppressor into a pocket on his parka. The pistol he kept in his hand.

He approached the intruder with caution. He seemed to be unconscious, but it could be a ploy to get Richard into range so he could renew his efforts to kill him. Richard was debating searching the man for more weapons and identification—and maybe pumping a round from the PS9 into the man’s head to ensure there’d be no further trouble with the bastard—when he heard commotion from within the house.

Charlie, barking in agitation. And voices raised in alarm.

He headed for the back door at a run, thought better of it, and ran around the side of the house. He slid to a halt as he took in the M1114 HMMWV parked in the dooryard, doors open and engine idling. One look at the light grey on white camouflage painted vehicle told him that it was no civilian ‘Hummer’ model. The protective covers for the Central Tire Inflation System (CTIS) and the worn airlift hooks on the hood were clues. The M249 light machine gun pintle-mounted above the cab was a dead giveaway.

The Marines—or someone very much like them—had landed in Richard Farris’s front yard.

He approached the front door with caution. The storm door was leaning back against the porch wall, the closing mechanism broken. The interior door yawned inwards, the frame splintered where the deadbolt and latch had torn through the wood.

He crossed the foyer and entered the living room in a crouch. He could hear Charlie, somewhere off to the left, his barks reduced to muffled growls. Someone in there—not the woman, the voice was too deep—was screaming. The tang of cordite filled the air.

Something crunched underfoot and Richard looked down. Broken glass littered the floor, the sofa and end tables. Several dragon figurines he had collected were knocked over or shattered. Tiny black spheres peppered the room. He picked one up, rolling it between his finger and thumb. It was hard rubber; a projectile from a sting grenade. From the looks of the room more than one had been launched through the windows.

He was considering his position and next move when a fat man jerked backwards through the bedroom doorway, tugging on something and whining. He too wore arctic gear, but it was tight and ill-fitting. As he retreated further, oblivious to Richard’s presence, Richard could see what he was tugging at.

Charlie was worrying at the fat man’s arm. The sleeve of his parka was shredded below the elbow, blood pouring out in freshets. Charlie’s teeth were clamped onto his arm above the wrist. As Richard watched, the dog planted his back legs and shook the arm like a rag. There was a snapping, crunching sound from the man’s wrist and he shrieked.

Good boy, Richard thought.

The fat man was almost in the middle of the living room, his shrieks reduced to sobs as Charlie continued his assault on his arm.

“Get it off me!” he screamed.

A second man entered from the bedroom. This one was slender, with greasy black hair and a thin mustache that made Richard think of Snidely Whiplash from the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. He carried a USP9 identical to the one Richard had taken off of the Hyena and was lining it up on the dog growling fiercely a few feet away.

“Hold still, Doc,” he said, his voice calm amidst the melee. “I got him.”

Richard didn’t hesitate. He shot Snidely Whiplash through the knee. Blood and bone sprayed out like a macabre party favor and Snidely went down, clutching his knee and bawling like a newborn calf.

Charlie and his captive both turned at the noise, the fat man’s eyes widening at the sight of the gun now trained on him.

“Let him go, Charlie,” Richard said, rising.

Charlie obeyed, releasing the man’s arm and backing off a step. A warning growl continued, deep in his throat.

“Good boy,” Richard said, closing on Snidely Whiplash—now holding his knee and mewling pitifully—and kicking the man’s weapon out of reach. He spared a quick glance into the bedroom. The woman was still on the bed, unconscious or sleeping. The sheets and blankets had been pulled up around her in a sort of makeshift gurney. They’d been preparing to move her somewhere—likely the HumVee—when they’d been interrupted by one very large, very angry St. Bernard.

No one else appeared to be in the bedroom. The bathroom door was closed. Someone could be in there, but Richard doubted it. The struggle with Charlie and the subsequent gunshot would have drawn them out. He scanned the living room and what he could see of the front yard. There was no one else in evidence.

He didn’t like that the kitchen door was closed. Anyone could come through that door without warning.

“How many of you are there?” Richard asked the fat man.

“Don’t tell him anything,” Snidely Whiplash said through teeth clenched in pain.

“Shut up,” Richard said. “Or you’ll need two new knees.”

To the fat man: “How many?”

“Three here,” the fat man replied around sobs, “four more in the helicopter.”

Helicopter? Richard thought. What have I gotten myself into here?

“You’re dead, Doc,” Snidely said from the floor. “Jefferson’s gonna kill you.”

“Charlie,” Richard said. The dog turned to Snidely, a warning growl building in his throat. The man winced away.

“Okay, okay,” he whined.

“Doc, is it?” Richard asked. The fat man nodded. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Now we don’t have time for pleasantries, so I’m just going to shoot you, maybe in the leg, maybe somewhere more vital, every time you refuse to answer. Or if I think you’re lying. Do you understand?”

Doc gaped at him. He was sweating. It matted his hair and ran down his face making him look greasy and unkempt. Blood from his arm pattered to the floor. Richard leveled the gun at his knee in warning.

“Yes!” he cried. “I understand.”

“Good,” Richard said. “Who are you people?”

“We’re a retrieval team. We were sent to bring back the woman.”

“Who sent you?”

“BanaTech.”

“What is BanaTech?”

“A research firm. They specialize in biotech and physics research.”

Richard processed this. Biotech companies were a dime a dozen. He’d never heard of BanaTech, but he could name a dozen other such companies off the top of his head. To his knowledge most were small companies that studied plants and animals looking to bring new medicines to the market. The larger ones, it was rumored, worked hand in hand with the government cooking up bioweapons for military application. He’d never heard of one that also dabbled in physics.

“What are they researching?”

“I don’t know. We’re just part of the internal security team. Please, my arm.”

“Why do they want the woman?”

“She stole critical information. They want it back. Please. I don’t know any more.”

The fat man was crying now. Tears rolled down his cheeks, mingling with sweat and blood. The damage to his arm had to be causing him considerable pain. These men had broken into his home, tried to kill him and his dog, and tried to kidnap an injured woman to whom he’d given shelter. Richard felt no pity for the man.

“Where is the helicopter?”

“Please,” the man mewled.

Richard raised his gun to the man’s face. “I won’t ask again.”

“It’s supposed to circle the area and wait for our signal, then escort us to the extraction point.”

“Why are you with this team?”

The last question seemed to baffle the man. “What?”

“Snidely over here,” Richard said, gesturing with his free hand at the man on the floor clutching the remains of his knee to his chest, “and the man outside are military types. You’re not. You’re fat, your clothes don’t fit, and, quite frankly, you’re singing like a canary when you should be keeping your mouth shut. So why are you with this team?”

Richard never got his answer. He’d been keeping an eye on Charlie and the man he was guarding out of the corner of his eye. Snidely didn’t move, he didn’t hear what was coming. But Charlie did. He whipped his head towards the kitchen door as if spying a squirrel darting across the room.

Richard fell back, pushing off with his feet. Broken glass ground into his back but the 9 x 19mm parabellum slugs that arced across the room as the Hyena burst through the kitchen door blindly firing a Brugger and Thomet MP-9 machine pistol missed him altogether. Fate, circumstance, or just good old-fashioned luck also spared Doc and Charlie from the onslaught. The man Richard thought of as Snidely Whiplash wasn’t so fortunate. One of the slugs took him just above the ridge of the nose, opening the back of his head and depositing his brain on the wall behind in a garish smear.

Richard, propelling himself backwards with his legs, returned fire. His awkward position and frantic motion conspired against him and he missed his target. When the slide of the USP9 locked back on an empty chamber he rolled on his shoulders and dove out the front door. Charlie, having sense enough to know when he was outmatched, came through the door behind him.

“Run!” Richard yelled at the dog. Charlie obeyed, heading around the house out of the line of fire. Richard gained his feet as bullets splintered the doorframe and burst through the open door seeking flesh to rip and rend.

His thoughts—running a million miles a second—took him to the HumVee. He thought he could gain the vehicle despite the barrage of bullets coming from the house. It was armored, and could handle the snowmelt and ice with ease. It doubtless had GPS and a transmitter, making it vulnerable to the BanaTech helicopter lurking about, but the M249 light machine gun should be sufficient for staving off attack unless they were carrying a rocket launcher or other heavy ordinance. That option, however, meant abandoning Charlie and the woman. He dismissed the thought and followed the dog around the side of the house at a run.

His best course of action, he decided, was to enter the house through the rear and get behind the intruder who was no doubt following him and the dog. With his weapon empty he’d have to be swift, stealthy, and decisive. He couldn’t allow the man another chance to kill him.

He rounded the back corner of the house, leaping a still frozen bush and spying Charlie heading into the bowels of the garage.

Good boy, he thought. Hide in there until I come for you.

He was several feet from the open back door when the Hyena appeared in it. He’d intuited Richard’s hasty plan and reversed his own course to meet him head on. His face was distorted by swelling and bruises, his nose, bleeding and misshapen, his jaw hanging at a strange angle where Richard’s kick had broken it. The injury didn’t stop him from grinning like the cat that’d cornered the hapless mouse, however, and Richard could see specks of dogshit amidst the blood and saliva between his front teeth. With less than five feet separating them, there was nowhere for Richard to go. The Hyena lifted the MP-9 into a firing position. At this range, he couldn’t miss.

When there’s no way out of a situation, the only thing to do is go further in. Richard increased his speed and flung himself at his attacker.

The brazen move didn’t work this time. The Hyena sidestepped Richard’s lunge, pulling the pistol’s trigger as he did so. The first round went astray, but the second and third rounds found flesh. One pierced Richard’s right shoulder, the other traced a line of fire across his left ear. Several more rounds buzzed through empty air above Richard’s head.

The Hyena’s aim had been too high; the wounds would not kill. They had been sufficient enough to halt his forward progress, however, and Richard crumpled to the ground, a mass of pain and burning.

The Hyena stepped forward to deliver a coup de grace shot to Richard’s head. Richard looked up into the face of his murderer. There was still no mercy there. Only glee, and a sort of insane light dancing merrily behind his eyes as his finger tightened on the trigger.