Cascadia Fallen: The Complete Trilogy, page 24
Having travelled for several hours, Phil estimated it was now about 0400 hours—he was reluctant to turn on his phone and cast bright light. He still hadn’t reset his self-winding watch. The original, slightly overgrown trail had ended, but the people—animals, Phil reminded himself—had not been careful to cover their tracks. Phil was aware that the muddy footsteps and broken branches could be deliberate. He knew that experienced soldiers would leave sign for their trekkers and double-back in a large circle to ambush them from behind. He was keeping a close eye on his compass to make sure that wasn’t happening. His pace count was telling him they had probably gone about two miles, which seemed slow to untrained people, but it was actually pretty far, all things considered.
They had travelled across a large open clearing and a couple of roads maintained for the contract-logging crews that Washington occasionally hired to log state-owned land. They had started to ascend some, which told Phil they were somewhere near the eastern slopes of Mount Verde, the highest point in the county. He knew there were a few desolate roads in the area. Most of the houses were on large tracts of acreage. There were a lot of horse ranches and old-fashioned “country-folk” that lived out here, but there was also a real and persistent element of meth addicts who stayed in old travel trailers and single-wide mobile homes.
Phil held his hand up near his shoulder, palm open and facing forward. He then closed his fist. Stop. They all took a knee. He wanted to stop the patrol there and wait for dawn.
Ants, crawling. But they aren’t biting. Odd. Wait. Where are they going? I didn’t know ants made noise.
Carmen!
“MMMrrmmpphhh!” What the hell?
Stu slowly regained consciousness and realized there was a rag stuffed into his throat and duct tape holding it to his head. Can’t. Hardly. Breathe! “Crrrrmmmmnnnfff!” he tried calling her name once again. Then it hit him. That’s her—screaming! Oh, God! Nooo!
“Cccrrrrmmmmnnnnnnnfffff!” he tried screaming as loud as he could through the rag. It was no good. The sounds he heard coming from the next room were sounds of horrible violation, pain, and suffering.
Stu started to swell with raw emotion—anger! Disbelief! Rage! Fear…Tears started streaming down his face, some of them soaking into the greasy red shop-rag.
He could hear it—hear it all. They were raping her, viciously. “ARRRRGGGHHHH!” was all he could scream through the rag. There was pounding. He thought he could hear her fighting. Keep fighting! Keep fighting…ARRRGGHHH! She doesn’t deserve this! God—you can go to hell! Stu knew deep inside it wasn’t God’s fault, but he was feeling too primal and exposed to think rationally.
His pounding headache was a temporary memory, replaced by adrenaline, cortisol, and norepinephrine as his body reacted to fight or flight. Where am I? The engine compartment. What’s holding me? He couldn’t tell. His hands were bound behind his back. His feet were bound, too. He tried wiggling around and was able to see several wraps of duct tape around them. I might be able to cut through that. He kept wiggling, but his body had other ideas. The stress was too much. He started to throw up. NO! Mustn’t choke! He tried his best to suppress it. His vomit hit the rag and started to choke him.
He was breathing wildly and rapidly through his nostrils, trying to suck in as much air as his panic-stricken body needed. Must maintain control! he screamed in his own mind. He swallowed hard, gulping his contents back down. Slowly he was able to control his breathing. Think the worst is past. Stop choking!
He could still hear it, though the screaming was milder now. It was decreasing and being replaced by sobs. No! Keep fighting. No! He started to bawl through his rag, his flushed face heating his tears of shame. I’ve failed you! Carmen, I’m so sorry…I’m so sorry…Former narcissist Dr. Stuart Schwartz, bound and gagged, cried uncontrollably—not for himself, but for the only friend he had in the new world.
Somewhere in a waterway west of Puget Sound, a small boat bobbed at anchorage as if nothing were wrong.
With a vertical range of well over two miles, the drone picked up enough altitude for Phil to take a good bearing on a few landmarks which helped him confirm their location. He’d found a thin spot in the trees, relying on the others to cover security around the entire perimeter while he sent the drone up. Jerry had reminded him that neither set of batteries was fully charged, so he had just a few minutes at best. He didn’t send the device up to maximum altitude, but rather just high enough to look for signs.
When he started to detect it during its descent, he opted to keep altitude there and send it in a slow circular search pattern. He was able to confirm that there were only two properties within five hundred meters of his position. A quick flight and scan of the properties showed that they were well-kept. He could even see someone’s laundry drying at one of them. He was starting to feel stressed—the trail would be completely cold soon.
About that time, the drone descended to two hundred feet above ground level and starting hovering directly over Phil, a feature meant to tell the operator that the batteries were about to die. Phil cautiously brought the expensive toy down. Now he was forced to make a tough choice—send it back up on the last battery or press west?
He recalled Josh for a consult. Upon hearing the results, Josh provided his input. “It’s overcast but dry. It’s morning and plenty of daylight left. We’ve had a little break. I say press on. When we think we’re around more houses, send it back up. But don’t waste time and battery gaining too much altitude. I’m sure Jerry would rather know Savannah is safe than worry about some scumbag shooting down his drone.”
Phil nodded. “Thanks. When your loved ones are on the line, sometimes you start to question yourself. But that’s what I was leaning towards, too.”
The HAM radio Phil was carrying was mounted to a pouch on the left side of his plate carrier, just behind some magazine pouches. He used a plug-in mic on the front of the carrier for speaking on the radio. That was connected to his electronic ear protection with a small wire that he ran through the carrier’s should strap. This enabled him to listen for radio transmissions without blaring the radio out into the open.
Phil keyed up the mic. “Brewery. This is Keg. Over.”
After a few seconds, “Keg, Brewery. Go.”
“We are approximately seven klicks past the pub crawl. Any update? Over.”
“Keg, the Bouncers have been notified and came back behind the bar to see for themselves. They are also out looking for the drunks.”
“Brewery, Keg copies. We have scouted the bar’s roof and have decided to proceed another three to four klicks. Keg, out.”
“Brewery copies all. Out.”
Phil recalled the other two teammates, and they continued their slow progression west. They were trying to stay on old hiker or game trails—not just for speed but to keep down on the noise that stomping through the dense underbrush created.
After two more hours, he called for a quick break. The mini-squad created a perimeter and hunkered down for a snack. “Everyone okay on water?” Phil quietly asked. Each member had brought a pack with gear, food, and water. They all gave a thumbs up, knowing that talking as little as possible was important. Phil gave everyone a “stay put” signal and headed south to a thin spot in the trees. Yeah. This should work.
He went back to the others and called them in. “Alright. There’s a spot over there. I think I’ve seen enough signs that we’re near some more horse farms. Re-pack—we’ll head over, set security, and I’ll send the drone back up.”
Everyone complied, and within ten minutes the drone was up about four hundred feet performing another circular sweep. Phil saw one property on the tablet screen and moved the drone to the south. The drone passed over two pastures and a road on the way to the grimy, run-down single-wide trailer. It had junk all over the place. It looked like a hurricane had decided to spit out all its contents there. That’s it. Phil got his hopes up. It has to be. Look at it. He called over Josh and Eli. “Look.”
Eli spoke first. “How on Earth can people live like that?”
“Yeah,” Josh nodded, locking eyes with Phil. “That’s our mission.”
Spoken like a true Joe, Phil thought.
“Alright,” Phil decided. The other two went back out to their hasty perimeter while Phil brought the drone back down and stowed it in his rucksack. He pulled out his compass and took a reading that correlated to the direction the drone had flown back from.
About an hour later they were at the near edge of the second clearing he’d seen. He set security and everyone SLLS’ed for a few minutes. Then he called them in. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to run a Gotenna up a tree here. Josh—you and Jeff will box around this clearing on the east. Eli, you and I will go west. Jeff—Josh’ll plant you in the woods about twenty meters in from the edge of the property. You’ll watch our backs. Got it?”
Jeff nodded. “I’ll be your overwatch.” This caught Phil off guard.
“Alright, I gotta ask. How the hell—”
“Video games,” Jeff said cutting him off. This made Phil smirk.
“Well, alrighty then,” he said smiling. “Josh, set up due east of the main structure, we’ll stagger ourselves so that the three of us triangulate. In one hour, I’ll send out the first text to make sure we’re all set. Everyone text in clockwise rotation. These antennas only last a day, max, but we have a second one. Radios are a last resort. Hopefully we’ll see something soon. Remember—do not engage unless you’re in immediate lethal danger. If you’re seen, this spot right here is our rally point. Questions?”
Everyone was amped despite not having slept the night before. Hearing no questions, Phil sent the Gotenna up into a tree with a piece of paracord and a rock. Then he sent everyone out on their assignments.
He planted Eli in the tree line to the northwest of the property. Eli was basically covering one end and the back of the mobile home. He made his way about sixty meters farther south, planting himself on the other end of the property. They were all staring at a run-down singlewide mobile home that was light blue in color and had moss covering the roof. There was filth and junk in every direction. He sent out the first group text.
[Phil: “At SW corner. No activity. Back deck small. Junk all over yard.”]
[Brrrt—Eli: “NW corner. May see movement inside.”]
[Brrrt—Jeff: “North overwatch is all clear.”]
[Brrrt—Josh: “East secure. Front a real craphole. Entry will suck.”]
[Phil: “If we plan an entry we’ll use the back.”]
After a few minutes Jeff texted again. [Brrrt— “Now what?”]
Phil replied. [“Waiting game. Need better intel. Try to stay awake.”]
It was getting dark again. Between his headache, stress, and lack of food and water, Stu had no idea what time it was, let alone which day. The engine had fired up again at one point. He feigned moaning the first time they came to check on him. The second time he decided to fake a seizure when they started talking about using urine jugs to wake him up. It had worked. They walked back out of the engine space, laughing.
Stu knew that he’d actually passed out, too. Probably concussed. The boat was quiet. Too quiet. Are we on a pier? The thought of being tied to a pier was bittersweet. On the one hand it brought the hope of escape. On the other it could mean the bikers were done playing with their prey and ready to finish them off. He started scrambling with his hands, still bound with multiple wraps of duct tape behind his back.
He spent several hours rubbing the tape on a small jagged edge he felt on one of the multitude of hoses and manifolds surrounding the big diesel engine. The tape was slowly ripping and loosening, pulling skin and wrist hair with it. He no longer felt pain. His arms were numb from being pulled back for so long. He finally managed to break the tape. As soon as he wriggled one hand free he used that arm to sit up.
Whoa, he thought. Slowly. He had felt a head rush. Even when we’re free I won’t be able to fight these guys. He felt despair start to win over hope.
Once his head had settled a bit, he began rubbing his shoulders and arms, trying to get circulation back. After several minutes, he had freed his legs and finally felt somewhat mobile. He stood up and set an ear to the door. Nothing.
He slid the door open just a fraction of an inch, looking. Seeing nothing, he worked it open a little more. The process repeated itself until he realized the men weren’t in the rear cabin. He stepped in. The scene of the crime was enough to make him start to cry again. His eyes moistened with the salty tears of guilt for failing his friend. There was blood—not enough to indicate danger. It was just enough to say someone’s been brutalized here.
He moved forward to the galley area. It was too dark outside to see much from the portholes, but they were definitely tied up at a pier of some sort. He slowly crept to the stairs leading to the bridge cabin and listened, hearing nothing but waves and seagulls. She’s missing. I’m wounded. It’s dark and somewhat rainy. No idea where we are. Now what do I do?
22
Hippocratic Oath Breaker
Tahoma’s Hammer + 12 Days.
The walk up the manicured lawn was eerie. There was very little moon above the clouds, which made it difficult to see. Stu had let his eyes adjust to the dark for a good half-hour—or at least that’s what he told himself. In truth he was working up the nerve. The house and property around it were pitch black. Too risky. Deal with the one most important problem, just like in surgery. Find her. Save her. For once in your life do something that matters.
Though Stu could never imagine how horrible it must’ve been for Carmen, he did know that listening to it was the worst experience of his life. He felt void of almost any emotion that wasn’t hate. The only feeling he had was one of no longer caring if he lived or died. His only sense of motivation to do anything at all was to find Carmen. He had no delusions about what lay ahead. Unless he got lucky, the monsters would eat them both. Luck…what the Hell is that? Luck is an illusion… He had paused at the end of a brick wall that formed the edge of a large, exposed-aggregate patio, looking and listening. Still nothing.
Maybe they left? No. They’re predators. They’ll finish me off first.
The rain was starting again, stifling the breeze that had been blowing through the fir trees. He slowly walked over to the patio door, stopping just shy of stepping in front of it. His pulse pounded in his ears as he peeked in. Still nothing. The house was huge, with wings that branched off the main body, providing many rooms with patios and views of the water.
They could be watching me right now.
He didn’t realize how calm he’d been until that moment. Now all he could hear was the blood in his ears. He pushed on the sliding door, half-expecting an alarm even though the power had been out for days. He looked around as he stepped in.
He froze, listening. He wanted to give his eyes more time.
If I accidentally bump something, I’m a dead-man!
He realized he was standing in some sort of breakfast nook just off a kitchen area. There was an arched doorway to the left. Dining table over there. He looked through another opening to the other side of the house. Entry in there. He walked that way.
Once he was near that portion of the house, he saw a grand set of stairs that stopped half-way up and turned around. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and stopped again, listening.
I wonder if they’re sleeping…
He looked up the stairs and walked up to the half-way point. Now he was standing under a large skylight in the ceiling above and looking out over a sunken living room.
He suddenly gasped in a big breath of air—he was so tense that he’d forgotten to breathe for a long time. His body had jolted him back to it. He took two more cleansing breaths.
Are those… Yes, stuffed heads. The owner of this house is obviously a big-game hunter.
THUMP-THUMP. The blood in his ears was circulating the new air.
He went up the other half of the stairs, taking his time. He was in the zone, not much caring at this point if they discovered him. He was in a central hallway that led to multiple sub-halls and rooms. The floors were wood, and there was an expensive rug in the middle of it. It was at least fifty feet long. There were paintings of scenic mesas, Native Americans, and cowboys. The walls were decorated with a variety of hunting and trapping paraphernalia. He chose a direction and walked, continuing this process until he walked into what he figured was the master bedroom.
Here you are.
He was looking at the bodies of two well-to-do looking retirees. The man had been shot where he slept while the woman had just managed to fall out of bed before her own demise. She was lying on the floor. Both were covered in blood. Stu put the back of his hand on the man’s hand.
Fairly cool. Probably been a few hours.
A thought evolved. I bet a hunter has guns, huh?
He started looking for those though he knew he may not be able to figure out how to use them. The house was still… dark… quiet… so he continued.
When he found his way to the wing at the far end, he walked in to what was a large room for entertaining. It had a billiard table—the nice kind with red felt. There was an extravagant bar adorned with many more hunting trophies. There were two, large leather couches with four matching chairs set up around a huge marble coffee table and centered on a 100-inch TV that adorned the wall.
Carmen was on one of the couches—naked and unconscious, covered in bruises, and bound in duct tape. Her face was swollen from being beaten. Stu turned his head and gasped. He tried to remain quiet. I’m so sorry. I’ve failed you. Once again his eyes turned salty and wet with emotion.
