Dead Strays

CHAPTER 1

Cash’s latex-gloved hands gripped the steering wheel so hard they ached. It had been that way for the past twenty miles, since they’d left Clear Falls. Once they’d been through the worst of it, he should have relaxed. After all, they hadn’t seen another car since they turned onto this dirt road, and that was at least five miles back.

How’d that poem go? Two roads diverged in a wood, or something like that.

It was supposed to be easy. Building plans. Alarm codes. Shift schedules. Even a guard on the inside. Like clockwork. Until it wasn’t.

Like the time I went into a dry-cleaners instead of a smoke shop. Clothes but no cigar.

The engine sputtered again. The flat tire had made the way difficult, but the hole in the radiator made it damn near impossible. Though the battered vehicle faced downhill, even gravity stopped being much help. Cash willed it to keep going, but the bullet-riddled minivan decided that enough was enough. So it came to a stop and died for good.

Cash tried turning it over, and despite the incessant ringing in his ears that muffled the outside world, all that he managed to do was elicit a strange grinding noise from under the hood. Then, even that stopped.

Deader than my grannie’s sex drive. Figures.

His eyes focused past the bullet hole in the windshield, just up and to the right of his head. He felt a touch of the breeze that whistled through it. A hint of cool on his sweaty face in the otherwise cramped, hot space. An inch down and over and none of this would have mattered anymore. All things considered, he was glad it still did. The pane of curved glass has stood up surprisingly well. It had taken three direct hits, and none of the rounds had shattered it. Broken, yes, but still intact. Much like the rest of them.

The view outside was idyllic. A deserted country road, all gravel and dirt, overgrown with weeds at the edges. On either side sat long-forgotten farmland, reclaimed by forest and brush. Fields of wild clover mixed with canola; a sea of gold and green under a bright blue sky. Straight ahead on the down-slope was a sizeable duck pond, the still water broken only by rushes and the occasional paddling bird. Despite the uncomfortable buzz in his ears, it was, for lack of a better word, nice.

Don’t know if Frost ever broke down in a backwoods toilet, but let’s be honest… There’s nothing poetic about any of this shit.

A sigh escaped his lips, and he realized for the first time that he’d been holding his breath for the past minute. He sucked in a fresh lungful, all too aware it tasted of copper and gunsmoke. Strangely enough, with the foul air came the noise. It was as if the volume inside his head had been cranked from a manageable hum to a rock concert in an instant.

Someone was screaming. Someone was yelling. Someone was trying to speak over it all. And Cash wanted nothing to do with any of it.

To hell with this.

His hands finally let go of the steering wheel, his fingers aching and stiff. Without another word, he opened the driver’s door and stepped out of the van.

Glad to be outside, Cash slammed the door closed, only to catch sight of his own reflection in the driver’s side window. An open collared grey suit, showing a flash of a gun holster underneath. Thirty-eight years old with chestnut, wavy hair speckled with the first hints of grey. Youthful features with a hard streak, mostly around the eyes. Where kindness might have had purchase once, the deep brown pupils held a hint of something darker. He couldn’t meet them for long, and turned away, taking a few steps ahead of the van.

With a trembling hand, he spit on the ground before drawing a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He tried to shake one out, but several fell to the ground. Cursing, he picked a cigarette from the dirt and stuck it between his dry lips as he fished for his lighter.

A small hawk screeched overhead, drawing Cash’s eye. More silhouette than distinct features, it circled above, clearly agitated at their presence. Cash looked back down at the road ahead. A dead rabbit lay about ten yards away, the same brown as the dirt, and so easy to miss at first glance. Cash understood at once both the hawk’s lament and the rabbit’s sorry fate. A simple score ruined by some jerkoff with no business being there in the first place.

You and me both, pal. You and me both.

The van’s rear passenger door slid open. The screaming, no longer muffled, broke the relative silence, somehow even louder than when Cash was in the vehicle. The sound was as plaintive as it was shrill. A pitiful attempt to undo what was done with the only means left. A hoarse cry to an indifferent God, or maybe a curse against a cruel existence.

Cash didn’t know, and despite wanting to, didn’t particularly care. He tried his best to ignore it, purposely staring at the duck pond at the bottom of the hill instead. Willing his hand to stop shaking, and failing at it, he managed to bring the small flame to the tip of his cigarette.

He took a series of tentative drags, allowing the tip to glow bright yellow from the heat and added oxygen. It felt good to draw in the smoke, the taste as familiar and forbidden as a wayward lover. He allowed himself one longer inhalation before closing his eyes to prolong the small pleasure. The sound of crunching gravel underfoot, however, dispelled the feeling as quickly as it came.

Wade Boone stopped alongside him, taking in the view Cash was trying to fix upon. Despite himself, Cash glanced sideways before returning his gaze forward. With his greying fade, deep brow and set jawline, the fiftyish-year-old Wade seemed more a no-nonsense history professor than what he was. But much like Cash, it was the eyes that gave him away. Unlike his younger companion, however, Wade’s creased metal-grey eyes lacked any guilt, and offered only cold and frightening truths to anyone fool enough to meet them. That, and the blood. His chocolate-brown skin was spattered with it, from neckline to forehead, along with the entire front of his black suit. Though it didn’t show it as much as his otherwise white shirt, the blood wasn’t his.

Without turning his way, Cash offered a cigarette from the half-empty pack, his hand still trembling. Wade took it, along with Cash’s lighter and lit up, his own latex-gloved hands still as a rock.

The world could shake apart, and Wade stands still.

They both took a slow drag, inhaling the smoke, holding it for a moment, and then releasing twin plumes of exhaust as they stared out at the tranquil countryside. Cash was the first to speak.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Wade sighed. “You too?”

Cash kept his eyes on the pond. “I’m serious. Not only are they bad for you, but you have any idea how much these things cost?”

Wade glanced his way, confused. Cash held up his cigarette as proof.

If Wade found the joke at all funny, he didn’t let on. “Wiseass.”

“I don’t know. I mean, we are in the middle of a recession.”

Wade inhaled deeply, savoring the sensation as much as Cash did only moments ago, before responding, “I think you’ll be okay.”

Cash raised an eyebrow. “That depends. Think we lost ‘em?”

Still the screams carried on.

Wade sighed, then called back, “Shut him up.”

The screams became muffled for a moment, then restarted. Wade glanced to the heavens, then dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushed it with his heel and turned back to the van. Cash inhaled another lungful of smoke, content to finish his own cigarette before tossing it away. The way he figured it, enough had gone to waste already, so why add to the pile?

CHAPTER 2

This wasn’t how it was supposed to play out. But then, what else was new? As far as Wade was concerned, the benchmark for screwups was always River Valley, and this mess hadn’t changed that. But it was bad enough.

Can’t hear myself think. We just got some distance, and this damn fool is gonna bring them right back down on top of us.

Wade stuck his head inside the van’s open door. It was a service vehicle for the Dreamcatcher Sun Casino and Resort. A light grey exterior with twin white stripes running the length of the vehicle, and ending with the Dreamcatcher Sun logo stenciled on the rear quarter-panel and the window above it. Inside, cloth bench seating that could fit seven and a solid AC system ensured a roomy and comfortable ride for guests and employees alike. It had seen better days.

Along with the carpet and parts of the ceiling, the cream upholstery in the back was drenched in red. Morris Chula lay writhing on his back in the rear-most seat, his blood-soaked hands trying in desperation to keep his guts from spilling out onto the floor. His ashen face resembled a dead man’s, but his grimace of pain and wide, panicked eyes betrayed the life still in him. Not to mention the screams.

Stupid asshole.

The smell of sour sweat and blood and feces from the ruptured intestines filled Wade’s nostrils and he almost gagged. Having stepped into fresh air for only a minute was enough to reset his senses, and leaning back into the stench of the van made him want to close the door and walk away forever. The pleading look from Diaz was all it took to keep him rooted to the spot.

Every bit a killer and thief as the others, Hector Diaz nonetheless cradled his friend and openly wept. With his suit all but ruined from Morris’ blood, his expression registered a myriad of conflicting emotions – fear, disgust, anger, and great sadness.

Imagine Butch and Sundance, except rather than being played by Paul Newman and Robert Redford, one was a stocky Latino with a scraggly beard and a permanent scowl while the other was a tall half-Native with a military cut and an unnatural predilection for violence. The only thing the duo enjoyed more than each other’s company was the damage they caused in the process.

“I said, shut him up,” Wade repeated.

Diaz glared daggers for a moment, then replied, “I’m trying, Wade.”

Between nonsensical gibberish, Morris grabbed a handful of Diaz’s coat, trying to speak through the pain. “I need a doctor, man! Don’t let me die… Please… She said this would happen! She said—”

Diaz shushed him, running a hand through Morris’ hair and trying to calm him. “It’s okay, brother. Shhhh…”

“You don’t get it, man. S-She’s waiting for us… For all of us!”

Diaz and Wade traded an uneasy glance. Morris had been babbling for most of the ride, having been shot while still inside the casino. Wade had ignored pretty much everything the dying man had said from the outset, concentrating instead on helping Cash steer through traffic and get out in one piece. But now that he could actually pay attention to Morris’ words, Wade didn’t like what he was hearing.

Morris pressed on despite Diaz’s attempts to comfort him. “You see? We gotta stay in the light, man… That’s the key! R-Rachel knew… She wanted me to—”

Wade slammed a fist against the side of the van, startling everyone inside. His eyes bored into Morris, silencing him instantly.

“Don’t say her name.”

She had been their way in. Morris’ cousin was three-quarters Chickasaw, and had gotten them the uniforms, the security cards, and even the codes. If anything, this had been her job and the boys were simply along for the ride as hired muscle. She was everything you’d want in a frontman – sharp, dedicated, and surprisingly charming. Not that it did her any good.

In the end, they’d lost Rachel and two others, with Morris the only one able to still walk out. How much longer he’d last remained to be seen.

But it’s not looking good.

Morris squirmed, unable to sit still as a trail of tears cut through the blood smeared on his face. “I’m sorry…”

“Shhhh…” Diaz kept stroking Morris’ hair, and for the next few minutes, it seemed to do the trick, as the wounded man settled into a squirming whimper.

Wade turned to the passenger seat window, and tapped on it. It rolled down to reveal Connor Washington, who, at twenty-one, was the babyface of the bunch and wore his inexperience on his gunshot sleeve. Holding a hand tightly over the hole in his upper right arm, his otherwise brown cheeks were drained of color from blood loss, and his eyes remained closed.

“Connor, you awake?”

No response.

Wade leaned in. “Connor?”

“I’m thirsty,” came the reply as the young man’s eyes opened a touch.

Means you’re alive, kid.

Wade pulled a hip flask from his suit jacket and placed it to Connor’s lips. The younger man took a long sip, coughed once, then nodded he was done.

“Hold this for a sec,” Wade instructed, and Connor took the offered flask. Lifting Connor’s other hand off the wound for a moment, he took a quick peek. It was the first chance he’d gotten to examine it since the kid had been shot. One entry wound, no exit.

Still in there somewhere. Hopefully in one piece.

If the round had hit bone and fragmented, Connor would be in far more trouble than just from simple blood loss. But there was no way of telling without getting him on an operating table or in an x-ray machine.

Basic triage it is.

Wade removed his right boot and slipped off a sweaty sock. He aired it like a windmill, to Connor’s slightly surprised face and a chuckle from Cash. When it was mostly dry, he flattened it out and folded it over twice into a thick square, and as gently as he could, inserted it into Connor’s suit sleeve to cover the wound.

The jacket ought to keep it in place.

Connor winced, but kept quiet, opting for another pull of the bourbon inside the flask. Wade stuck his bare foot back into his boot, laced up and held out a hand. Connor obliged by handing him back the hip flask.

“Keep pressure on it, kid,” Wade said, turning away from the van and back towards Cash, who now stood behind him, peering in.

Connor only nodded, placing his hand back over the bulge in his sleeve and closing his eyes again.

Cash took the flask from Wade’s hand, taking a grateful sip. Normally, Wade might have said something to the tune of, “Did I offer?”, but decided against it. Instead, he only snatched the flask back and took a sip himself, appraising the bemused twinkle in Cash’s eye.

“That went well,” Cash stated, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

“Got what we came for, didn’t we?” Wade growled back.

Cash glanced at the minivan’s open doorway. “Some real Charles Bronson bullshit. So much for your easy out.”

Wade stowed his flask back into his jacket. “I never said it’d be easy.”

Cash took a final drag of his cigarette stub before tossing it aside. He inspected Morris from under furled brows. “What do we do with him?”

Diaz responded before Wade had the chance. “We gotta get him to a hospital.”

Cash clicked his teeth. “And how the hell are we supposed to do that? Call for dustoff?”

Morris snapped out of his stupor long enough to say through grit teeth, “I w-won’t say nothing, man.”

For a moment, no one spoke, when an answer came from an unlikely source.

“We could leave him.”

All eyes turned to Connor, surprised the young man was still awake.

Fear played in Morris’ eyes. “No,” he breathed. “You can’t…”

Diaz stared daggers at the back of Connor’s head. “You’d like that, after the shit you pulled. He wouldn’t be all fucked up if it wasn’t for—”

“Stow it,” Wade ordered, and Diaz retreated into an uneasy silence.

Connor stumbled out of the minivan, careful not to drop his hand from his shoulder, and as a result, almost fell over. Wade caught him at the last second, and was almost as quick to release him once the youngster’s feet found purchase.

“Cops would see to him,” Connor muttered after nodding his thanks to the older man.

Understanding at last what Connor was getting at, Morris flashed a brief smile through the gasps of pain. “Yeah, yeah… I won’t rat. I-I swear.”

Cash and Diaz traded an unsure glance before both looking to their leader. Wade stood his ground, staring through Morris with hard eyes. No one envied this impossible decision, but it demanded an answer nonetheless.

Years of military doctrine ingrained the belief – the promise – to never leave a man behind. But what choice did they have? They couldn’t carry him, and even if they tried, he was as good as dead. Leave him, on the other hand, and he became a liability.

He can finger us all… If he doesn’t bleed out first.

The men under your command trusted you to lead, but more than that, they trusted you with their lives. Even when they made mistakes. Even when those mistakes cost lives. As long as they were loyal, that trust could not – must not – ever be broken. The chain of command depended on it.

A mixture of emotions threatened to spill over the berm holding them in check. More than anything, Wade felt anger. It was all he could do not to strangle the life of out somebody. So he did what he must instead.

“Close it up. Get the bags.”