Thick Black Theory: A Symbiont Wars Book (Symbiont Wars Universe) Read online

  “Now, as I was saying...,” the man behind her growled. “For all I know y’all are on the side of them motherfucking injuns who nuked the power grid. And, if any of you make a move and the gamekeeper doesn’t take off that gun belt and slide it over here real careful, I will end this little girl right now. After you do as I say, we’ll talk about what else I want in my shopping bag.”

  Kaitlin couldn’t see anything of him, pinned as she was, but she could feel the man's protruding belly pushing up high on her back. From that—and the size of the arm around her neck—she knew he was big. He hadn’t noticed her weapons yet though. Evidently, he was acting alone. None of the three men across from her were looking anywhere but in his direction.

  Twombly spread his hands. “Okay, I’m taking off the belt,” he said, reaching down. He unbuckled the belt and, holding it by the buckle, lowered it to the floor. “Now, I’m going to push it over.”

  As he put his hand on the holster, Kaitlin could sense he was about to make a move. Since the gun was pointing behind her ear instead of at him now, he’d have an instant to close with the man. Kaitlin had already identified Twombly for a combat veteran. He knew it was his best opportunity to regain control and was willing to sacrifice her to take it.

  Sorry little girl. Semper fidelis to the greater good.

  Her captor must have sensed the same thing. When Twombly shoved the holstered gun, across the floor, the man ignored it and brought his weapon to bear on Twombly as the ex-marine launched himself across the room. Kaitlin, seeing her chance, brought her right fist up to catch her captor’s gun-arm elbow by using Blondie in a yawara technique to catch the soft spot on the inside of the joint and pull it to her. With her other arm, she snaked out with the tactical stick and clamped the wrist to increase her control of the arm.

  As she reached his wrist, the gun fired. The recoil of the big handgun jerked his wrist hard against the fighting stick as Kaitlin snagged it and pulled it tight against her.

  Twombly’s dive had only carried him partway across the room before the bullet knocked him to the floor.

  Holding tight with her left hand, Kaitlin loosed the man’s elbow with her right hand. With a flick of her middle finger in the deployment slot and a snap down and up—a tricky deployment that had taken hours to master—the blade dropped into place with a snick, already in a reverse grip.

  Kaitlin twisted to get out of the way of her own blade as she thrust her arm back into the soft tissue to the right of the gunman’s groin. The point punched deep into the tissue, and Kaitlin dug down and out, slicing hard as she pushed.

  The man screamed as a warm jet of arterial blood fountained onto Kaitlin’s legs, drenching her from cargo shorts to boots.

  Kaitlin snapped her right hand back up, still holding Blondie, to lock on to his arm again with grim determination. Still screaming, the man leaned forward, opening his mouth wide to bite her wrist. But his left arm’s grip on her neck had loosened, and Kaitlin tucked her chin below his forearm and spun her body to the right—opening his right arm and twisting Blondie’s upswept tip towards his face.

  The man failed to notice the blade come in line with his eye as he stretched forward. Kaitlin rotated her right elbow towards him hard, and the blade burrowed into his eye socket. With another scream of agony, he loosed his hold on her and sank to his knees, dropping the gun. As the knife slid out of his eye socket, he collapsed, blood still spraying from his femoral artery. He shuddered a few times then stilled as a red puddle spread out like a rose blooming in a fast-forward movie.

  Chapter 7 — Gone swimmin’

  Kaitlin staggered away from the crimson flood, managing to kick the man’s handgun toward Bernard before she came to rest against a rack of potato chips and pretzels.

  Bernard picked up the gun and snapped the safety on. “Are you hurt, Kaitlin?” he said, voice anxious.

  Kaitlin coughed, rubbing her neck and staring at the mountain of camouflage and flesh abandoned by life in the middle of its own blood.

  Rule 8 reload at the first tactical pause.

  Still coughing, she staggered to the corpse and checked all pockets, locating two magazines and a half-empty box of 10mm cartridges. She waved them at Bernard. “Might have others coming to check on him. You can shoot, right?” He knew where the safety was anyhow.

  “I was in the Air Force,” said Bernard, switching the magazines out and forcing a cartridge into the one he’d taken out. Bernard crouched next to Twombly and checked his neck. “He has a pulse.” Bernard said, puzzlement in his voice as he turned him over.

  Looking for an exit wound.

  “No blood.”

  “He has a vest on,” said Kaitlin, still rubbing her throat. “Check his head. It may have clipped him there. It might not bleed much.”

  “Yeah. Soft spot right here,” he pointed to a spot high on the back of Twombly’s head. “It’s big as a silver dollar. From the way it stopped him, I think the vest caught the bullet after it hit his head. That has to have caused serious brain injury. All we can do is put ice on it and see if there’s a doctor in camp.”

  “We don’t have any ice left,” said the store manager, choking a bit as he spoke and staring at the bodies on his floor. “We sold out right after the power went out.”

  “What about first aid kits with those chemical cold packs?”

  “Bernard,” said Kaitlin. “I don’t think he’s breathing. Check his pulse again and see if he fogs your cell phone’s screen.” Kaitlin pushed away from the shelf to stagger to Twombly’s gun belt and pick it up. It was heavy: heavier than she expected. Though she’d never fired a gun, she knew the rules—she’d even written them into her stories. So, she checked the safety. After all, she knew the difference between red and green.

  Rule Two: Make sure it’s loaded.

  Kaitlin removed the magazine to check for ammunition. Even if she didn’t know how many constituted fully loaded, it held cartridges, so she pushed the magazine back into the receiver and pulled the slide back a fraction to check to see if there was a round in the chamber. As she suspected, a gleam of brass showed in the chamber. Twombly hadn’t struck her as someone who would short himself on time or available ammunition. She left the round in place, but checked the safety again. The belt held extra magazines, so she checked those too.

  Also loaded.

  Glock 22 Gen4 was inscribed on the barrel. When researching her teen-spy novels, Kaitlin had used the information about this model in her story and knew it was a recent one—though not the latest. That was about the limit of her internet and YouTube education about firearms. A sixteen-year-old runaway doesn’t get much practice with handguns unless they’ve been recruited by a street gang or a super-secret intelligence agency.

  No thanks.

  Kaitlin fought down a giggle then her mind registered the blood that coated her legs and right arm.

  Totally inappropriate.

  “Kaitlin, he’s gone,” said Bernard.

  She turned to see him staring at her as if he was waiting for orders.

  Look through his pockets for loose change.

  Kaitlin managed to clamp down on that before saying it. Her mind was throwing weird, stupid things at her—a soothing mechanism she knew. She just had to make sure none of it came out of her mouth.

  One. Two. Three... Rule Nine. Before you quit the fight, make sure the fight is over.

  “We need to be remembering this guy might have had friends who could be coming to see what the shots were all about,” she said.

  Bernard picked up the gun again, stood and walked around the puddle of blood to look out the door. “Can you lock this?” he said, looking at the store manager. “It needs a key in the lock to throw the latch.”

  The manager fumbled in his pocket for keys as he took an even wider detour around the puddle.

  “Bernard, we need to get back to Bernice in case his friends are going through the camp.”

  Bernard turned to her wide-eyed.

  Kaitl
in turned to the store manager, assessing him. She hadn’t had a chance to even think about him. He was in his late thirties, a little overweight but sun-browned and looked like he at least got outside doing work around the campground. As she looked at him, he pulled in his stomach, straightened and met her gaze.

  “I’m sorry about leaving the bodies for you to deal with, but we have responsibilities. I figure, I at least saved you from being robbed and shot though. Is that worth any of your supplies here in the store?”

  “Good Lord,” said the store manager. “Is this what life has become?”

  Kaitlin shrugged. “Maybe. Till it gets better or worse. Do you have any ammunition, first aid supplies or energy bars?” She needed to get what they could from the situation before he had time to think much.

  “I need to get home somehow,” said the manager. “I have a family but no gun to protect them or myself.”

  “Your car might start still,” she said. “If not, that guy’s might if you can find it.” Kaitlin waved at the body of the robber.

  “You can have whatever you want from the store if you leave one of the guns with me.”

  Kaitlin’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you haven’t said what you have yet.”

  “First aid kits, propane, fishing tackle, a crap ton of junk food, boats...,” he said, rubbing his face. “Hell, just look around.” His body sagged against the door. “I gotta get home to my kids.”

  “Do you know how to use a gun?” Kaitlin prompted.

  “Yes, but my wife didn’t want one in the house. She’ll change her mind after today, I’m sure.” He sighed.

  Gunfight Rule One: Have a gun. Preferably, have two.

  Kaitlin sighed. “Okay. We’ll trade the gun Bernard has and the ammo that went with it for free run of the store, including those garden carts around back to transport the stuff. Is the water pressure gone now? I need to wash this blood off my... everything.”

  “Just use the swimming pool,” he said, holding out his hand to Bernard. “No one will care.”

  Bernard took the magazine out and cleared the chamber before handing over the gun.

  Kaitlin was pretty sure rule two and eight trumped gun range safety procedures, so she checked the safety again and—with the grip towards her and holding the down pointing barrel with her fingers wrapping the barrel and her thumb around the trigger guard—she handed the Glock to Bernard. “It’s loaded with a round in the chamber,” she said. “I’ll do the shopping. You can do the shooting.”

  Kaitlin turned to the store manager who was just finishing loading a backpack with a few of his things. “There’s a back door that comes out at the pool, right?”

  “Yeah, right down that hall.”

  She followed him to the door. “Good luck,” she said as he checked outside before leaving the cover of the store.

  “You too,” he said then turned to look at her. “I wish I had the time to hear how you got to be you.”

  “I wish I had time to tell you, but I’d just use it trying to make sure I survived instead.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kaitlin. Kaitlin Sannhetsdottir.”

  “I’m Andy. From now on, I’m asking myself. What would Kaitlin do?”

  “If she was you, she’d be heading home already and staying off the road.”

  “Right. Thanks,” he said and jogged into the woods.

  Kaitlin turned to Bernard. “After we get this back to camp, I’m going to check Twombly’s truck for more ammunition.” Kaitlin paused in thought. “Can you cover me while I wash?”

  Bernard blushed, making his bushy, white eyebrows contrast with his face. Kaitlin snorted with laughter.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my clothes on. It will only take a minute.”

  Kaitlin locked the door before heading to the pool, stepping around the pool of blood that had already showered her. “Don’t forget to bring Twombly’s vest,” she said as she stepped out the door.

  Chapter 8 — Cost of living

  Dusk was changing to dark, as Kaitlin came back from the fire with two bowls of fish chowder that Beatrice had magically created with potatoes, onions, milk that was in need of immediate use and—of course—fish left over from lunch. She set them in front of their guests.

  “Ew! That is so gross and gloppy,” said the teenage girl seated across from her. “Do you have any actual food to eat?”

  Kaitlin smiled, picked up the bowl and moved it to her own place at the picnic table. “It must be nice, your mother having her own cook and housekeeper and all,” she said.

  The girl, Janelle, had remarked on the arrangement several times already in the few minutes since Bernice had invited them to come over. Their car wouldn’t start, and they were stranded in a cabin with no food.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Janelle’s father said, his voice betrayed his embarrassment even though his face was in too much shadow to reveal the blush Kaitlin suspected was covering his face.

  “Your mother couldn’t come on your camping trip?” said Beatrice.

  “As if,” Janelle said, wrinkling her nose. Her face—Kaitlin could see that clear enough where the girl sat by the lantern—boasted caked-on makeup, plucked eyebrows, dark lipstick and a sour expression.

  “It’s my weekend with my daughter,” her father said. He’d introduced himself as ‘Brad’.

  By the time Kaitlin finished the bowl of chowder, Janelle had insulted Kaitlin’s eating habits, her hair and gone on to express particular contempt for the condition of her fingernails. At each remark, Brad looked as though he wanted to say something, but swallowed it.

  Janelle switched to talking about ‘the murders’ at the camp store and wondering when the cell towers would come back up so the police could be notified and she could ‘escape this hellhole’.

  Kaitlin stood up and turned her bowl over onto her napkin, knowing she’d want a second helping later. “Excuse me, Brad. If you’re finished with that, would you mind helping me move something that’s a bit too heavy for me?” she said as she picked up the smaller gas lantern and walked several yards from camp, moving slowly enough for Brad to catch up to her.

  “I apologize for my daughter,” Brad said when he caught up with her. “What is it you need help with?”

  Kaitlin held her hand up. “Thank you, Brad, but I didn’t ask you over here to lift anything or get your apology. I did it to offer you a favor.”

  “Oh?” Brad eyes narrowed a touch.

  “I expect it’s hard not being able to raise your own daughter. But, Brad, you and I both know there’s nothing you can do on one or two weekends a month to affect her behavior. She’s over sixteen and—until today—anything you do she doesn’t like would’ve only meant you’d lose the weekends you have, because she’d just go crying to her mother then refuse to see you.”

  Brad stood silent for a few moments. “... until today?”

  “The power isn’t coming back on, Brad. You have your daughter full-time now. If you care a rat’s ass about her, you’ll keep her away from her mother. Without the cook and the maid, she and Janelle will not survive what’s coming.”

  “God!”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was afraid something really bad had happened, but didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Yeah, I know. Here is my offer. I’m giving you a choice. You can go back and snatch your daughter away from our table and campfire before I get back from taking a few minutes to pee. If not, I am going to give her a chance to apologize to Bernice, Bernard and me or else I will slap her six ways from Sunday.”

  Kaitlin held the lantern a bit higher so Brad could see her face. She meant to make sure he knew she was serious. “I reckon, maybe you don’t think you can be the one to hold her accountable right now, but I can make a start of it. Without the police around to protect her freedom of speech, her mouth is going to get her killed. It may get you killed too.”

  Kaitlin paused again, but Brad didn’t say anything. “Alright then,
you should be able to make your way back to the campfire without the lantern. I really do need to pee. Whatever you decide, I hope it works out for the two of you.”

  Kaitlin turned the flame on the lantern down and moved behind a cluster of small trees while Brad stumbled back towards the fire.

  When she got back to the campsite, Brad and Janelle were gone.

  “I think we should let them come with us,” Bernice said.

  Bernard snorted.

  “I offered him help already, Bernice,” Kaitlin said. “Some people just won’t let you help them.”

  Bernard turned to look at Kaitlin. She shrugged the shoulder closest to him and met his eyes, raising her eyebrows innocently.

  Kaitlin turned back to Bernice. “We might want to stay here for now, Bernice. Travelling will be dangerous for a good while.”

  “I agree,” Bernard said. “Two hundred miles is a long way and there is bound to be trouble between here and Dallas.”

  Bernice put her face in her hands. “I know, Bernard, but it’s my family. I have to see if they are okay.”

  “We can’t help them if we’re dead,” Bernard said, voice just above a whisper as he touched her arm. “They have friends there. I’m sure they’ll all help each other.”

  Bernard looked at Kaitlin; his face mirrored her own concerns.

  ∆ ∆ ∆

  Kaitlin—snuggled into the top bunk of the Westy’s overhead—breathing deep of the cooling night air and listening to the song of frogs and the patter of rain on the roof. Every time she started to drop off to sleep, the image of blood spreading across a linoleum floor made her jerk awake. The rain went on for hours, slowly calming her. When she slept at last, she dreamed that she floated in a miles-deep pool. A huge fish—whiskered and ancient—rose from the depths. The scarred face closed with hers until its whiskers brushed her face, and it changed, its head transforming into Kaitlin’s own image, covered with gore.