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Seven places we have raided.
Seven.
Yes, you heard that correctly.
Fucking seven.
One lead takes us to another and another. All dead ends. Now here we are at another shitty house. It’s quiet inside. Quieter than the last six.
It smells of mildew and old age as I step across the threshold, ready to shoot any bastard between the eyes.
“Gunz!” someone hollers, wanting me to wait for backup. Fat chance. I’m done waiting. Sure, we’ve freed other women, men, and children along the way. I’ve stained my hands in more blood than I care to discuss. It doesn’t matter much now, does it? Nothing will until I get them to safety. I can’t eat. I sure as fuck can’t sleep. The bruises from my hazy night outside the farmhouse have faded. The brothers haven’t said much about it. And… thanks to Kit, I can’t even enjoy tea anymore without thinkin’ of her. And thinkin’ of her makes me rage.
This should’ve never happened!
Hot on my tail, White Boy, not faring much better than me, joins the crusade. The faster we clear this place, the quicker we get to the next on Bongo’s endless list of bullshit.
Eyes sharp, I flick on light switch after light switch, not giving a fuck about their electric bill as I scour the place for signs of life. White Boy inspects the rooms I don’t as our brothers stand watch outside.
Fresh clothes lie in a pile on an unmade bed upstairs. Fancy men’s toiletries are lined up neatly on the attached bathroom vanity.
In the furthest room on the second floor, I find the corpse of a young, naked male, lying in the fetal position beside nothing more than dust bunnies. From the looks of it, he’s been gone a while. I’ll spare you the gory details.
Holding my breath, I back out of the room, and close the door. There’s nothing I can do for him now. The stench of death has become a companion as of late. I barely notice it anymore.
The scrape of bootheels on hardwood greet me as I jog down the winding staircase to join White Boy and Kade in the parlor. Our resident sick fuck from Texas twirls a Bowie knife like it’s nothing as he sifts through a stack of newspapers on the coffee table.
He points to a date with the tip of his blade. “Looks like someone was here yesterday.”
Not surprising. They probably caught wind of us in the area and bailed, taking their merchandise with ‘em.
“There’s a dead teen upstairs,” I explain.
“Been there long?” comes from Kade.
“Looks like it.”
“Kinda quiet here,” White Boy throws out from somewhere in the house.
He’s right. It’s too still.
“Anyone check the outbuildings yet?” I rock back on my heels, ready to get this over with.
Runner steps into the parlor to join us. “The grounds are clear.”
Super! Fantastic! Another motherfucking dead-end.
“Basement?” My upper lip curls in unspent wrath.
Somewhere a door squeaks, and White Boy hollers, “Last on the list!”
Stowing my gun, I scrub both hands down my face and curse and curse and goddamn curse until my anger ebbs long enough to join White Boy in a well-kept kitchen. He holds open a scarred door and flicks on a light switch. Sweeping his hand and bowing with flourish, he bestows me the ridiculous honor of checking out the bowels of this house.
It reeks of rot and piss, as I descend the creaky stairs with him on my tail. There’s nothing to see beyond cracked walls, mold, and a small, stained cot in the corner. No signs of life. We turn a corner, and I push a ramshackle table out of the way. The drip, drip, drip of leaky pipes leaves a small puddle on the ground beside a closed door. I press my ear to the rusted steel and hear nada before testing the knob. It’s locked.
White Boy juts his chin at the handle and aims a gun at the door. “You check. I’m ready,” he whispers as if a werewolf’s gonna break out and maim us. This man has lost his marbles.
Past the point of exhaustion, I sigh, and gesture for him to lower the weapon. It’s pointless. What’s he gonna shoot? A rat? Not likely. I’ll end up with a bullet in my foot before any varmint gets offed. My brother needs sleep. He needs peace. Hell, we all do.
