Constant Fear (28 page)

CHAPTER 49

J
ake made frequent checks behind him as he went. Fausto was coming, that much was certain. He could hear him, but not see him, which was fine. More than enough blood pooled from Jake’s injured hand to coat the walls, but at some point he wouldn’t have enough left in his body to keep him upright. Still, Jake knew where he needed to go. Having a destination kept him motivated and moving. The leg was bothersome, but not crippling. The tourniquet seemed to be working well, another positive Jake used to spur himself on.

As for his thoughts, Jake kept those task-oriented. Return to his bug-out location. Get to his weapons cache, where he had plenty of ammunition. This became a mantra of sorts. He had used mantras in baseball on plenty of occasions, and it proved valuable here as well.
“One step at a time”
replaced
“One pitch at a time.”
Repetition kept Jake alert and in the moment as he traveled through different sections of tunnel, while leaving behind enough of a bloody trail for Fausto to follow.

When necessary, Jake crawled on his belly to clear the low ceilings. He navigated successfully through crumbling archways and over-corroded pipes without incident. His injured hand produced mind-numbing pain at times and required special protection. He favored his good hand when forced to clear a particularly difficult obstacle.

Despite his extensive injuries, Jake moved briskly, somewhere between a walk and run. Markers spray-painted on the walls revealed his position as he journeyed underneath the Terry Science Center, the library, Gibson Hall, and the Society Building, where he’d shot a man dead. Soon enough, Jake was back in the section of tunnel that hid his bug-out location.

It was here Jake retrieved a Smith & Wesson .22 LR—rimfire pistol, good for target shooting, maybe a little recreational fun, but not ideal for gunning down drug cartels armed with assault rifles. It was all that Jake could shoot. He held the gun in his left hand and gazed at the black barrel, noticing now how his vision came in and out of focus. He did not have long.

Jake aimed the weapon. It was shaky in his weak hand. He would need his target perfectly still to make a kill shot. In this condition, Jake was all but guaranteed to lose a gunfight—or, for that matter, any other type of hand-to-hand combat.

But like any good prepper, Jake had a solution.

In his storage room, Jake kept plenty of .22 long-rifle ammo sealed inside military 50-caliber BMG ammo-storage cans. The cans were made of metal, with handles on top that made them easy to stack. A latch closed the cans tightly, and a rubber seal inside helped keep moisture out. He could store ammo for years this way, and it was just as good as a vacuum seal, Jake would say. He kept his bullets inside Ziploc bags, with a packet of silica gel thrown in for good measure to suck up any excess moisture. Each can held six Ziploc bags with 150 rounds. Jake didn’t want that much ammo going off. He wanted fifty bullets at most. Enough to do the job.

Jake checked the ammo in the Smith & Wesson before he slipped the pistol into the waistband of his pants. He next opened a can of ammo, using his good hand, and returned to the larder with a Ziploc full of bullets. He formed a pile of ammunition, fifty rounds give or take, in the center of the room, which he soaked with gasoline from one of the many canisters stored down there. Working quickly, Jake made a trail of gas from the pile of bullets to the wall just to the right of the door, where he took up position. He checked that his Zippo lighter worked, which it did just fine.

Soon enough, he heard footsteps approaching. Fausto had followed the blood trail to the bug-out location. Cast-off light from a flashlight grew brighter. Jake had been wrong. Sometimes death did schedule an appointment.

A smile came to his bruised and battered face. For some reason, “The Star-Spangled Banner” had popped into his head, a song that he cherished for the many fond memories it evoked. It was game time—that was why it had come to him so suddenly, so out of the blue.

When the moment felt right, Jake lit the Zippo and let it fall from his grasp. Easiest pitch he’d ever thrown. Straight down. The flame caught the gas and, with a
whoosh,
a trail of fire lit up. It soon engulfed the pile of ammunition inside a contained ball of flame.

Jake knew what happened when ammo caught fire. Bullets didn’t go whizzing around like they’ve been discharged from a gun. Cartridge cases burst open, sure, and bits of brass might go flying about, but not with any velocity. Wouldn’t even puncture the skin if it struck. The bullets wouldn’t explode in one big simultaneous burst, either, but rather piece by piece.

A cartridge case confined to a chamber of a gun was a different matter. A gun caught in a fire would shoot a bullet at full velocity, and that risked injuring or killing Jake. But this was a show—The Show, as the big leagues were called—and Fausto was part of the game, though he didn’t know it just yet.

Soon the bullets had started popping, one by one. It sounded a hell of a lot like gunfire. Jake observed the position of the flashlight beam and knew right away that Fausto had taken cover against a tunnel wall. He inched closer toward the door until he could poke his pistol into the larder. Fausto proceeded to fire blindly into the room. It was a bit imprudent to shoot without a target, but there was some logic. He could shoot at the sound without exposing his body to return fire.

The bullets from Fausto’s weapon smacked against the walls of the larder, damaging only sacks of rice. The popping sounds continued, and so did Fausto’s dispensing of bullets. This time, he poked the barrel of an assault rifle into the room and let off fifteen rounds. He covered most of the room, except for the wall where Jake waited. Soon enough, though, Jake heard a click, followed by another. Fausto had shot all his ammo at nothing but a diversion.

In that next instant, Jake’s arm shot out. He snatched with his left hand, giving the barrel of Fausto’s rifle a hard yank. The gun came free of Fausto’s grasp, and Fausto came stumbling into the larder, off balance, with his long hair rising up behind him like a silky wave.

With a snap of his wrist, Jake pulled the pistol from the waistband of his pants and fired off a single shot, which hit Fausto’s arm, but missed the head.
Damn left hand!
The bullet’s impact sent Fausto to the ground, but he was quick with the leg and used it to sweep Jake off his feet.

Jake went down on his back, hard. Before he could react, he felt weight on top of him, and a hand clawing for the Smith & Wesson. Jake resisted as best he could, but soon enough Fausto pulled the weapon from his weakened grasp.

Panting, Fausto stood to take aim. His mistake. Jake sent his leg skyward, right into Fausto’s unguarded testicles.

Jake heard the air hiss out of Fausto’s lungs, along with an agonized cry. Fausto doubled over in pain and staggered backward into the adjacent storage room as Jake struggled to his feet. In a way, Fausto had stumbled into a more advantageous position. He had gained some distance, and still had Jake in his direct line of fire. But Fausto was in too much pain to aim his weapon, so the gun in his hand hung useless at his side.

Frozen where he stood, Jake briefly contemplated running. Maybe he could get out of the larder, maybe down another corridor, but he would not get very far. He would eventually be gunned down. Those deep-set eyes of Fausto shadowed a rage Jake could feel in his bones.

Jake’s opponent wasn’t moving very quickly. The pain in Fausto’s groin had turned his movements into molasses; but Jake, shot in both the leg and hand, wasn’t in much better condition. He couldn’t quite catch his breath. Fausto looked away as he got steady on his feet.

During this brief interlude, Jake reached behind with his left hand, his good hand. Without taking his eyes off Fausto, he grabbed a can of beans, which was stored on a low shelf within arm’s reach. Jake brought his arm to his side and held his hand in such a way as to hide the object he had taken.

Fausto’s pain finally settled, or so it seemed, since he managed a satisfied grin. For the first time, Jake got a good look at the horrific metal mouth, which contrasted sharply against his dirt-covered face. The pile of ammunition positioned between Jake and Fausto continued to burn, and produced tiny explosions of gunpowder, which sounded like a mash-up of firecrackers and popcorn popping.

“How many more are down here?” Fausto asked. His chest heaved from fatigue. He spoke with an accent, but Jake had no trouble understanding him.

“None,” Jake said.

“None?” Fausto could not contain his utter disbelief. “It’s just you?”

Jake smiled. “Yeah. Just me.”

“Well, then,
váyase al diablo, pendejo,
” Fausto said.

Jake stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, the left-handed grip on the can of beans mimicking a four-seam grip on a baseball—the best grip for accuracy. He took a small rocker step forward with his right leg, and pivoted his left foot at the same instant Fausto raised the gun to take aim. Fausto lifted the gun higher, but he didn’t have it targeted yet.

Jake’s right leg came forward as his left arm went back, producing enough separation to generate velocity. Jake was perfectly balanced, right in the middle of his feet, not too much over the front leg or back leg. His hands were equal and opposite. Jake’s trigger foot—his left, not the usual one—turned in, and that brought him to the release point. He drove his shoulder toward Fausto’s head, which he visualized as a catcher’s mitt, and brought his right arm into his side. His feet were perfectly aligned so that his hips could open up. He stayed up and over the front leg as he released the can of beans way out in front of his body.

For not being a southpaw, Jake generated tremendous thrust. The can shot forward at incredible velocity at the same instant Fausto’s gun went off. If Jake hadn’t been in his follow-through, the bullet would have hit him in the head. Instead, it struck Jake’s shoulder.

The impact knocked Jake off his feet and backward into the shelf with all those cans. The shelf shattered on impact and sent a hailstorm of tin raining down on Jake’s head.

The bullet and the can of beans passed each other, but never made contact. Instead, the can sailed right through the open door of the adjacent storage room and connected in the middle of Fausto’s head. Maybe it was going forty miles an hour, maybe faster. Either way, it was fast enough to put a dent in Fausto’s skull and knock him to the ground.

Jake groaned and rolled on the floor of his larder, while Fausto did the same in the storage room. Expending what felt like his last bit of energy, Jake forced himself onto his knees. The hole in his shoulder was just another place for the blood to leak out. Jake’s world was going dark, but he could see the nearby can of gasoline, the same canister he’d used to ignite the pile of ammunition.

Jake went for the Zippo first. He stretched his arm like a ballplayer going for an errant throw to cut down the distance he had to travel, before he slid his way over to the can of gas. The cap was still off, with plenty of fluid inside. In the other room, Fausto, even more dazed than Jake, somehow got to his knees and took aim with the gun again. A river of blood poured out from the jagged gash that had opened up the middle of Fausto’s forehead and had bathed much of his face and eyes. Even on his knees, Fausto was wobbly, off balance. He fired two shots, which went in two completely different directions, both ineffective.

Jake tipped the can of gasoline over, spilling pungent liquid onto the floor. Using his legs, he shoved the whole thing into the storage room as if he had launched a shuffleboard piece. The open canister left in its wake a long trail of gasoline that continued until the container of gas came to a stop against Fausto’s knees.

Jake wasted no time getting his Zippo out. He hit the flint and dropped the lighter at the start of the gasoline trail.

The flame traveled faster than Jake’s pitch. In a blink, it vanished inside the open container of gas. An enormous fireball soon erupted. The explosion lit every crevice of the storage room and expansive larder in a bright yellow and orange light.

A wave of heat shot out, so intense it singed the hair on Jake’s arms and face. Biting odors of gasoline and smoke failed to mask the odor of Fausto’s burning hair and flesh as he vanished inside a swirl of flame. Fausto’s skin blistered and peeled. Soon he wasn’t
in
the flames, he
was
the flames; he was part of this entity that licked and spit and thrashed in all directions.

The pain had to be unbearable. Sounded that way, at least. In a matter of seconds, the flames melted another canister of gas in the storage room, and a second fireball erupted.

Jake shielded his face and turned away from the intense blast of heat. He crawled toward the door as another blast shook the room. By the time Jake reached the corridor, he heard the popping sounds of ammunition going off, followed by an explosion big enough to send a column of flames shooting out the larder door. Those flames licked the wall near Jake and then sank back into the larder as if the flaming beast had uncoiled and retracted its burning tongue.

When Jake finally reached the ladder that would bring him to the field house, his bug-out location was completely engulfed in flames. Gunpowder ignited, and chambered rounds went off as though someone had pulled the trigger. Food on the many shelves, in sacks, cooked until it was charred. Stored water boiled before it evaporated. Sacks of rice burned, as did the salt, the sugar, and the honey. Wood shelving fueled the flames and the heat melted the cans of fruit, vegetables, and beans it had scorched. The larder was seldom above sixty-five degrees, but now it was sixteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit, on its way up to two thousand.

Jake pulled himself up the ladder, rung by rung. His shoulder and leg begged for him to stop, but he went up anyway, one-handed, one rung at a time. He pushed open the trapdoor and was outside the field house, stumbling in the grass as if his legs were new and walking was something still to learn. His blackened body was invisible against the night sky. Eventually voices came at him from all directions, shouting orders, calling for medical attention. Figures approached carrying lights.