White Out: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (12 page)

Chapter Eleven

Sanford Pepper slammed his liver-spotted hands against the closet door, wincing with pain as he pushed forward, praying to an invisible God that they wouldn’t breach the door, but knowing deep down inside that they would. They were brutish monsters, every last one of them. He didn’t have much fight in him, but Sanford promised himself that he’d give them whatever he had left.

The biggest of the bunch had cracked him in the jaw with the butt of a rifle, knocking a few teeth loose. That was the last thing on Sanford’s mind. He wouldn’t even bother replacing them if he survived the morning.

He’d awoken only twenty minutes earlier to the sound of gunshots in his yard. By the time he’d grabbed his shotgun and made his way to the front door, they were already in his house, scampering about in circular motions, surrounding him. There were three of them. He didn’t recognize the one that kept laughing like a drug-addled hyena, and the big goofy looking one was recognizable from Tootsie’s corner store. He’d seen the man in there on a few occasions, always buying the greasy foods from the rotating “Grub
On The Go” display case.

The third one, though—the third one he recognized.

Marcus Davis.

Rumor had it that during Marcus’ sister’s funeral (she had died three years ago, thereabouts, from a horrific head on collision) he demanded the funeral home director to remove the stitching that held his sister’s lips together. He had refused, stating that it was unorthodox and there was no reason to leave her for all to see, with her mouth hanging open. By the end of the week, all of the director’s tires had been slashed, though he didn’t dare to call the police, for fear of what the chaotic and angry Marcus might do. He was well known in the Saint Mary’s Hospital drunk tank to be discharged with bloody fists and liquor on his breath, even on a Monday night.

While Marcus was giving his final goodbye to his older sister, it soon became clear to the funeral director why he’d asked for the stitches to be removed. Marcus had—according to local legend—bent over into the coffin, cuddling his dead sister’s body. Soon after, he proceeded to kiss her on the mouth in the most inappropriate way, something that none of the other mourners had ever seen, and would never see again.

The slimy bastard had tried to cram his tongue down her throat, to give her one final
French-style kiss. The onlookers also swore (rather, those who dared to speak his name in an ill tone publicly) that he would have gone much further with the post-mortem rendezvous if he was allowed to. Freddie Williams, who worked at the local post office, told Sanford that, “He would have fucked her if nobody else was there. That’s just the kind of look he had in his eyes.”

Now
this man—this monster—was inside of Sanford’s house, looking for something to quench that same sickly set of desires. “Tell me where they are and we’ll get out of your hair, Mr. Pepper. We won’t ask twice.”

“What are you talking about?” Pepper asked, feeling that his mouth was in far worse shape than he originally thought. Aside from his dismantled teeth, he’d need further surgery to correct the damage that had been done. It felt like his lower lip had detached from his face, right by the corner of his mouth.

“The guns, Pepper. We’re looking for the guns.”

“I don’t have any guns.”

Marcus laughed from the other side of the door, pounding his fist three times in repetition. “Kinda looked like you were holding a gun when we first came into the house. You know what they say about men with guns… that they hardly ever have just one of ‘em. Where are they, Pepper?” Sanford noticed that he had dropped the “Mister” from his addressing. The politeness, just as quickly as it had come, was gone.

“That was my only gun.”

“Not what I hear, Pepper. I hear you got enough weapons to fend off the whole damn Army. I hear you’re a real paranoid fuck in your old age.”

It was true. His paranoia amplified with every year that passed, especially since his house had been robbed a year ago. They’d only taken his gold watch and his television set, but he vowed never to feel so violated ever again.
Lot of good that did. He never took into account the fact that he was a deep sleeper, even though he kept his shotgun right by his bedside. It hadn’t done a lick of good. He was only glad that all his kids were fully grown, with kids of their own, and that his wife had died in the late nineties, of breast cancer. At least they wouldn’t be here to see what happened to their home, and what was surely about to happen to their father.

“Get the fuck out of my house. I know who you are. I know your face,” Sanford said, putting his face close to the door,
squinting his eyes as he expected a gunshot blast to come through at any moment. “I know your reputation.”

Silence.
Men like Marcus got overly silent when they were about to do something rash. Sanford kneeled in the corner of the closet, taking in the whiff of his old work boots, still covered in mud from the muddy treks around the property, looking for deer to gun down.

“Mr. Pepper,” said Marcus, serene in tone and suddenly polite once again. “Don’t make me kill you and then go looking for the guns. I know you’ve got them. We brought you steaks and booze, as a trade.”

Bullshit, thought Sanford. They wouldn’t trade anything. Men like this only knew how to take.

“We’ll even grill ‘em up for you,” one of the other men said. It sounded like he was standing right behind Marcus, probably his number one henchman. “Honest Injun.”

Bullshit.

Marcus spoke again, and Sanford couldn’t help but notice the click of the gun. It spoke much more truth than any of the invaders’ mouths dared to
speak. “Listen to me, Mr. Pepper. We’re not here to do you harm. You know that. You old coot, tell us where the guns are. I already said I wouldn’t ask twice, so it looks a lot like you’ve gone and made me a liar. I don’t like to feel like that, you know, like a liar.”

Another click, this one coming from behind Marcus, and then a third click.

Sanford closed his eyes, trying to imagine his life. People always said that a dying person would see their life flash before their eyes right before they passed into the Great Unknown, but it wasn’t happening that way. Try as he might, he could only picture the horrible men on the other side of the door, glaring and plotting. He couldn’t picture his dead wife. He couldn’t picture his kids or grandkids. But he could picture the pain that awaited him, and he could only pray that it would be quick. Painless wasn’t to be expected, but quick would be a blessing.

“Pepperrrrrrrrrr,” Marcus called out now, his voice low and dismal.

“Go fuck yourself,” Sanford Pepper announced, trying to hold his head high even though he was cowering inside of his broom closet.

“Pepperrrrrr,” Marcus repeated, as Sanford heard the door rattle.

A blast of sound crashed in Sanford’s ears. They’d blown out the doorknob, leaving a gaping hole of light spilling on to his face. An eyeball appeared in that hole. Though he couldn’t see anything more than the eye, he knew that the face Marcus made was wholly devious.

“Pepperrrrrrrr.”

The door swung open and Sanford was blinded for a moment. Then came the loud crashing, like thunder inside of a metal box, and Sanford Pepper was no more.

Chapter Twelve

It took longer than expected, but soon enough sleep overtook The Midget Man. His subtle snore was as diminutive as his whole being, just barely a whisper in a world of loud-mouthed men. As she looked up at him, she couldn't help but think that he was kind of cute when he slept, sort of like a teddy bear nestled inside of a child's warm bed. Paulie had cuddled many a teddy bear in much the same way that The Midget Man curled up his knees and dozed. He had let his guard down the moment that Annie fell asleep, staring at the dying fire, slumped in his warm chair, probably drunk as a skunk and well fed.

             
Annie counted to a thousand. As she counted, she kept a monitor on his snore. If it was interrupted before she made it to one thousand, she’d start over again. She wanted to be damn sure he was deep into R.E.M style sleep.

The Midget Man was left as the solitary guard of their
piece-of-unwilling-ass
trophy, and he was anything but vigilant. It didn't really matter whether she escaped or not, because what the hell could she do? Report it to the police? No. She had bigger fish to fry, as did they all. It was safe to assume that the world of law and order would not return for some time and when it did, the whole debacle would be wiped away from the slate, as if it never happened.
People get crazy in crazy times
, the Mayor might say. Or the Governor would pardon all crimes during the storm as being "acts of pure survival." Both would be applauded for their open mindedness, but neither would have a target on bullish thugs like The Shiny Bald One and his pack of frothy-mouthed wolves. Even if law and order returned in full force, it would be years until these mongrels saw a trial, given the circumstances of processing crimes that happened during the time that God took a snowy white shit on all of mankind.

Annie gathered her strength, pushing her body off the floor. Her muscles cried for relief, but it wouldn't come. She had to push through. In a way, it felt like being in labor, readying her body to let loose a screaming pink baby out of her birth canal. Even though she'd ended up with a C-Section, she went through enough contractions to know the feeling of a purist test of endurance.

A sticky suction sound made her cringe as she pushed herself into an elevated pushup position. She didn't dare to assess the damage for fear that it would take away the gusto inside of her.

An echo released inside of her:
Paulie.

Paulie.

Paulie was that gusto, riveting her into action.

The Midget Man still snored as Annie came up on to her knees, staring him down. If looks could kill, he might have spontaneously incinerated right then and there. And that thought gave Annie what she needed to attack.

Reaching next to the fire, huddled over like a shell that had just learned to walk, Annie picked up the fire poker and then stuck it into the fire, slowly so as not
to stir up the quietude. They always said that the embers and coals at the bottom of a fire pit were the hottest part of the fire, so Annie heeded that advice and jammed the curved tip into it directly, holding it in place for more than a minute. She still stared at her hateful Rapist Number One, pondering where she would stick the hot poker when it was ready.

The poker soon gave off a pulsing glow and Annie knew that the time had come.

She turned towards The Midget Man, careful of her silent footsteps. He still snoozed, deeper than ever. He surely dreamed of something inanely macho; high-fiving his sports heroes or eating a bloody steak off the barbecue, but soon he would be dreaming of something different.

Soon he’d be dreaming of whatever heathen god he worshipped.

Before she could gather her consciousness, to understand the gravity of what she was about to do, she lunged forward with the poker, sinking it deep into The Midget Man's tender throat. It gave a hot sizzle as it punctured right beneath his Adam's apple, sinking deeper and reaching the back of his neck. She could feel it push against the top of his backbone. His eyes popped open. His jaw widened as big as an unhinged snake and the tendons in his neck stretched long and tight. The Midget Man tried to say something, but the sound was drowned out by the violent simmer of the skin and tendons on his neck.

"How does it feel?" she asked, nonplussed by the instantaneous feeling of bliss that the kill gave her. It was something she had yearned for all her life, though she knew not the words to express it until now. It was better than sex, remorselessly
to exterminate this Lilliputian bug without any remorse. He had taken something pleasant and dreamy away from her. The Midget Man had turned her into a twisted witch, but part of her sort of liked it. Sure, she'd judge herself when the time was right and tranquility overtook her again, when the shit stopped hitting the fan, but in the here and now… she felt like a fucking vamp, like a goddamned rock star.

She asked, "How does it feel to get something nasty stuck inside of you?"

His only response was a gasp, as his head hung low, staring down at the crotch that had invaded her only a few hours earlier. His wheeze made way for a silence that felt golden, like the lull that came over her house when Paulie finally went down for his afternoon nap after a morning of tantrums.

She snapped out of her short-lived euphoria and searched his body. Annie found a revolver stuck inside of his grimy sweatpants, right near his butt crack. Annie wasn't sure how to shoot the bloody thing, but she'd learn if she had to.

With a long string of moments that seemed like a writhing eternity, Annie stood from her prone position, shifting her weight around as she managed to regain a balance she lost back when Tony was still breathing and plotting, before they’d dragged his empty vessel off to his final resting place.

The front door that they had once pushed through seemed a mile away, but she made it there, one foot in front of the other, stopping along the way to grab a half-eaten plate of steak and potatoes from their slovenly dining table, shoving it into the pocket of Tony’s down jacket that he’d draped near the entrance. Putting the jacket on, she forced herself through the door.

The blindness of the snow overwhelmed her. It was even worse than when they had stopped a day earlier. She could barely lift her legs above the snowdrifts, to position herself for a better view. In all likelihood, she was trapped, even though she'd thwarted her guardian, The Midget Man.

Something caught her eye, just beyond the snowy bluffs that had built up around The Purple Cat. Two rubbery handles stuck out of the snow, like Groucho Marx’s eyebrows, unhindered by the insanity of the icy grip of the world.

It was a snowmobile.

Most likely The Midget Man's
snowmobile and it was the most beautiful, hopeful thing she’d ever seen. Suddenly, she didn’t feel quite so raped and broken. Suddenly, she knew she’d survive.

God… please protect me if you’re listening
, thought Annie, as she summoned all of her strength, fighting back on the rifling pains and blood that circled around her lacerated womanhood.

As she trudged through the waist deep snow, she could only think of Paulie.

Paulie. Paulie. Mommy's coming home.