Tallos - Episode One (Season One) Page 5

  And now someone had taken it all away.

  Almost before he heard the shot, a large chunk of the wood pole that had once supported the main gate suddenly burst into splinters only inches away from Jim’s head. Instinctively, he threw himself flat, eyes scanning left and right in an effort to see where the shot had come from. Mark was also on his belly and had chambered a round into his rifle.

  Another shot came, this one hitting the ground several yards away from Jim’s feet. Whoever was attacking them was either a very long way off, or had terrible aim. Spurred by this thought and crouching low, he made a rapid dash for shelter behind a nearby pine. Just as he made it there, a third bullet ripped through the fence behind Mark’s position, leaving behind a quarter sized hole. This time Jim got a good bearing on the direction of the shot, and a few seconds later he spotted their attacker.

  It was a young boy – no older than twelve – crouching behind a fallen log a little over thirty yards away. His blond hair was matted and his face was caked with grime. Not that his appearance was of any great concern to Jim right now. What did matter was the .38 snub-nosed revolver he was clutching.

  “I see him,” said Mark, grinning viciously and aiming his Winchester.

  “No! Wait! It’s just a kid,” Jim shouted. Holding out both hands wide in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, he stepped out into the open. “Don’t shoot! We’re not going to hurt you.”

  The child shot again. This time striking the tree Jim was standing beside.

  “Kid or not, if that little bastard shoots one more time, I’m ending him,” warned Mark.

  “Stop shooting!” roared Jim. “We’re not going to hurt you!”

  The boy pointed the revolver at Mark, but didn’t fire. “Tell your friend to put down his gun,” he called over in a voice that sounded terrified yet at the same time determined.

  “Do it,” ordered Jim under his breath.

  “Fuck you,” Mark responded. “I’m not getting killed.”

  “The boy won’t shoot.”

  “He already did,” Mark countered.

  “He’s scared.”

  Mark huffed. “So am I.”

  With careful, deliberate steps, Jim moved slowly over in front of Mark until he had completely blocked his line of fire. “Come on out kid. You’re safe.”

  Hissing a curse, Mark stood up and lowered his rifle. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  After a lengthy delay, the boy stood up and moved into the open, still pointing the gun at them. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I’m from Fairview,” Jim said. “I knew the people who lived here.” He could see that the youngster's hands were trembling wildly.

  “You’re lying. You’re here to kill me.”

  “I’m not. I promise. I’m Jim. This is Mark. What’s your name?” While speaking, he took a couple of small paces forward.

  “Don’t come any closer,” the boy shouted, his eyes wide with fear.

  Jim held out his palms. “Take it easy. We just want to know what happened.” He inched another step.

  “I said don’t...”

  His words stopped abruptly as the gun went off, this time maybe as much by accident as deliberately, given his terrified state. Whatever the case, by now the boy’s hands were shaking so badly that the bullet flew way off to the right. Jim burst into a dead run, spooking the youngster even more. He screamed and pulled the trigger again, just as Jim lowered his shoulder into his abdomen. The shot went harmlessly skyward, allowing Jim to force the boy to the ground and pin down both his arms. An instant later, Mark ran up behind him and wrenched the gun away. The boy cried and struggled desperately, but Jim was easily able to contain him.

  “Calm down!” he repeated several times in his most soothing tone. “No one is going to hurt you. I promise.”

  Eventually his words began to get through. That, or the boy just gave up completely. His struggling ceased and he began to weep uncontrollably. Jim lifted himself up, then helped the crying child to a seated position.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Danny,” he replied between great sobs. “Danny Faircloth.”

  Jim recognized the name. “Are you Andy and Suzan’s boy?”

  He nodded.

  “I went to school with your mom and dad,” Jim told him. “Where are they?”

  Danny wiped his eyes. “Dead. Everyone’s dead.”

  Jim placed a comforting hand on the youngster's shoulder. “What happened?”

  “The Army came. They killed everyone.”

  Jim blinked in astonishment. “The Army? Are you sure?”

  Danny nodded vigorously. “They had uniforms and everything. Told us we had to move. That we had to come with them to Atlanta. They said it wasn’t safe here. My dad and the others told them they wouldn’t go. A couple of days later they came back and…”

  He covered his face with his hands.

  Jim pulled the boy close and rocked him back and forth. “It’s okay. It’s all over. They’re gone now.” He looked to Mark. “Why the hell would the Army do this?”

  “Shit, I didn’t know there even was an Army anymore,” he said.

  After a few minutes, Danny became calmer.

  “Are you one-hundred percent sure it was soldiers?” Jim asked him. “Not just someone dressed up like them?”

  “That’s what my dad said,” he answered. “He said it was the Army. He was sure about it.”

  “Did he say anything else?” asked Mark.

  “No. Not that I remember. Just that they were wanting us to leave. I was out fishing when they came back and started the killing. I couldn't do anything to stop them so I hid under some bushes until they'd gone.”

  A few more tears formed as he spoke.

  Jim's mind was a tangle of confusion. None of this was making any sense. Why would the Army slaughter innocent civilians? And what the hell was in Atlanta?

  He helped Danny to his feet. “Do you know the way to Fairview?” he asked.

  Danny nodded.

  “Okay. I want you to go to the pier there. Tell them everything that's happened. They’ll take care of you until I get back. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After giving the boy a piece of smoked fish and some water from his pack, he and Mark walked him to the main road, watching his departing figure until it was well out of sight. The implications of what Danny had told them had now fully set in, and Jim longed to be going back with him. It would be more difficult to assault their platform than the township here. But it was not impossible. In fact, a well-equipped company of soldiers could probably do it quite easily.

  “What do you make of all this?” asked Mark, breaking into his thoughts.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “But I’m worried, that's for sure.”

  “It was probably just a bunch of assholes dressed up in fatigues. Raiders or something.”

  Jim lowered his head. Much as he hoped this was the case, something told him that Danny was right. Several of the men and women who lived in Spanish Grove had once been in the military. They would have been able to sniff out an imposter pretty damn easily. No. It had definitely been an army assault. Now that he thought about it, even the holes in the fence were precisely located.

  “Well, let’s just hope we don’t run into them,” he said.

  “Amen to that.”

  They continued on until reaching the Jubilee Parkway Bridge. It was more than seven miles across, with abandoned cars piled up for almost its entire length. This would slow progress, but more disturbingly than that, it also provided any would-be attacker with plenty of places to hide. Jim had only crossed here once in the past two years. Though he hadn’t run into any trouble himself, he had come across several bodies of those who had. Mostly they’d been picked clean by carrion birds, but one was fresh enough to tell that he’d been beaten to death with something blunt and heavy.

  They were about halfway across when Jim first though
t he heard footsteps coming up behind them. He turned quickly, but saw nothing. After three more similar alarms, he drew his .45.

  “Jumpy?” teased Mark.

  “Just cautious,” he replied.

  Soon Jim could see the tunnel ahead that passed beneath the shipping channel. On his last trip here it had been almost completely blocked off by debris and wrecked vehicles. Now, at the entrance at least, it was totally clear. After drawing closer still, he could see that the inside of the tunnel was also free of any obstacles.

  Mark spotted the frown on his face. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Why would anyone clear this out?” he said. “You know how much work that would take?”

  “You’re thinking the Army did it?”

  “Who else could? The whole tunnel was like the bridge - jam packed with cars.”

  They knelt down and listened carefully, but were met by dead silence.

  “Let’s camp on this side tonight,” Jim suggested.

  Mark looked up. The sun was just shy of touching the horizon. “Fine by me. We can’t go too much further today anyhow.”

  They headed back a quarter mile or so until finding a clear area behind an old bread truck. After eating a meager meal, they unpacked their blankets and watched as the stars appeared one by one.

  “You sure you won’t come to Atlanta with me?” Mark asked.

  “More than ever,” Jim replied. “Whatever is up there, I don’t want nothing to do with it.”

  Mark huffed a laugh. “It may end up wanting something to do with you.” He rolled over. “Can’t hide forever, pal.”

  “Who says I’m hiding?”

  “I do. And I bet the people on that platform of yours know it too. They just don’t tell you so because they’re afraid you’ll leave.”

  “Okay. If you're so smart, what do you think I’m hiding from?”

  “The truth. You know it’s out there. You know you want to find out what's really happened. Why the world really went to shit. But you’re too scared.”

  “What difference does it make?” Jim countered. “It is what it is. Risking my neck on some fool quest for the truth won’t change any of that.”

  “How do you know? What if there was something you could do? Would you do it?”

  “That’s a stupid question. Of course I would.”

  “And if the answer is in Atlanta?”

  Jim pulled the blanket under his chin. “Then I’ll never know about it. Because I’m not going.”

  Mark chuckled quietly, but said nothing more.

  * * *

  The next morning, Jim woke with a jolt to find that Mark was not there. Quickly, he gathered up his things and hurried to the entrance of the tunnel. It was empty. Reluctantly, he called out, but received no reply other than his own voice echoing back at him. The low morning sun was penetrating much deeper into the tunnel than he'd been able to see the previous day, so he cautiously inched his way inside.

  “What the hell am I doing?” he wondered aloud. “I should just turn back.”

  In spite of this, something pushed him to look further. Leaving his pack near to the entrance, he continued slowly on until he was able to see the tunnel’s exit ahead. Nothing moved. Whoever it was who'd cleared the place out, they sure didn’t seem very interested in guarding it. He carried on all the way to the end. Ahead of him now was the expanse of I-10. Like the tunnel, there were no vehicles barring the way.

  He knew there were areas around here where people still lived. Maybe they'd decided to clear the roads for some reason. To his right he could see the dome of the civic center. Two years ago, when he'd been called up to stop looters, this was where his unit had gathered to receive their orders. But now, as far as he could tell, the building was abandoned

  I’ll just wait here for a few minutes, he told himself. Then I’m heading home.

  Just as this thought occurred, he heard a familiar grumble approaching and rapidly ducked back inside the tunnel. It was a truck. A big truck from the sound of it. He looked down the street beside the civic center, but trees and piles of debris were blocking his line of sight. How in the hell did someone get a truck running? But he knew what the answer had to be. Military. The image of Spanish Grove was still fresh in his mind. That had happened about two weeks ago. So whatever the Army was up to, they were obviously staying in the area.

  Panic began to set in. He had to get home.

  “Don’t fucking move,” The words came from directly behind him and were punctuated by the ominous click of a hammer being pulled back.

  Jim froze.

  “Now turn around slowly.”

  Once again, Jim did as he was told. Pointing a .44 Smith and Wesson directly at his head was a man with curly brown hair, a scraggly beard, and worn fatigues. In spite of his shabby appearance, his dark eyes were focused and unblinking.

  “Take what you want,” Jim told him.

  His offer was ignored. “What does Slade want with you?” the newcomer demanded.

  The question threw Jim right off balance. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Slade, asshole. Don’t play stupid with me.”

  “You mean Mark?” he asked.

  “I mean the sorry son-of-a-bitch you’ve been traveling with. Mark...Slade...whatever name he’s using. What does he want with you?”

  “Nothing,” Jim replied. “I’m just helping him out. That’s all.”

  “Helping him with what?”

  “Look. All I know is that he asked me to watch his back for a couple of days while he collected some stuff from Mobile. After that, I was going home.” He flicked his head backwards. “But he’s gone now anyway. So…”

  The man regarded Jim for a long tense moment. He then grunted and waved the gun toward the other end of the tunnel. “We’ll know soon enough. Move your ass.”

  Jim measured the distance between them. It was too far to get to the gun in time. He’d have to wait. Wait, and hope that this guy's obvious anger against Mark or Slade...or whoever he was... wasn't going to include him as well.

  As they walked steadily along, Jim looked down, searching for their shadows. But the sun was coming into the tunnel from the east, casting them backwards and making it impossible for him to calculate how far behind the gunman was.

  “I’m telling you,” he said. “I don’t know anything about the guy.”

  The man sniffed. “Well, he sure knows a lot about you for some reason.”

  “That's impossible,” Jim countered. “I only met him a couple of days ago.”

  “Just keep moving and keep quiet.”

  Jim had no option but to obey. They were almost to the other side when he heard Mark call out his name from some way behind. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. And, more importantly, so did the gunman. Seeing that his captor was quite close and momentarily distracted, Jim seized his opportunity.

  Crouching low, he dove in hard, grasping the wrist of the man's gun hand. His opponent reacted quickly however, jerking back and then jamming his left knee violently up into Jim’s gut. It was a strength sapping strike. Pain shot through him, and for a frantic moment he thought he might be about to lose his all-important grip. Somehow he held on though, his muscles straining to the absolute limit. Even so, slowly but surely the man was managing to twist the gun around so that it would be pointing back at Jim. Desperately, he lunged forward in an attempt to smother this possibility. The gun went off.

  Amplified inside the tunnel, the shot was deafening. Jim’s ears were ringing. Not that he was very aware of this. The sole thought in his mind was that the bullet had missed him. How or why, he couldn't explain. And there was no time to dwell on the matter. Snarling with fury, his opponent twisted right and shoved hard forward. Jim could feel his sweating palms slipping. Within seconds, his grip would be lost completely. In a do or die final gamble, he decided to try and use this to his advantage. Suddenly releasing his hold before being forced to, he ducked low, reaching up to the
man’s shoulder with his left hand and thrusting his other arm between his legs.

  Another shot rang out, but this time Jim barely heard it over his own adrenaline fueled roar of intent. With every ounce of remaining strength he could muster, he straightened up and lifted his opponent completely off his feet. He could feel the butt of the gun striking heavily against his side – once – twice – three times in rapid succession. But this did nothing to halt the now turning tide. Continuing the same motion, Jim swung the man completely upside down before slamming him hard down onto his back. As he landed, his head snapped back, clipping against the hard road surface. Stunned, his arms flailed outward.

  This was all the opportunity Jim needed. Reaching down, he wrenched the weapon away from his stricken opponent's hand and leveled it at his chest.

  A few moments later, Mark arrived and skidded to a halt. “What the hell happened?” he demanded. “Who is this asshole?”

  Although still groggy, the man managed to struggle to his hands and knees. “You…know…”

  He took another moment to catch his breath before trying again. This time the words came out clearly and firmly. “You know who I am...Slade.”

  Mark gave him a perplexed look. “Slade? I think you must have me confused with someone else, friend.”

  The man switched his attention to Jim. “My name is Peter Saldanski. I was a Georgia State Trooper. I followed your friend here from Atlanta. Whatever he has told you, and whoever he is claiming to be, it’s a lie.” He reached behind him slowly. “I can prove it. Here’s my I.D.” He pulled out a wallet and placed it open wide on the ground just in front of him.

  Jim tensed, watching his every move.

  “Fuck this guy,” Mark snapped. “Just shoot his ass and let’s go.” He began to reach inside his coat.

  “No!” Jim shouted.

  Mark stopped. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “Just wait a minute,” Jim told him.

  He looked down at the wallet. Inside was a Georgia State Trooper badge, together with a picture I.D.

  “I know I look a bit different,” the man claiming to be Peter Saldanski said. “But you can still see it’s me.”