Shepherd

EIGHT

He found Utah's truck.

It was still dark and the night had taken on a deathly quality, a kind of strange, eerie silence that followed the dead to their graves. It was like the whole of Glenrock had become a cemetery, a graveyard for the dead and the potential dead; potential millions at the hands of the payload hidden inside that truck.

Shepherd approached it carefully, keeping close to the shadowed walls of the small houses, dipping into yawning chasms of darkness found in yards and driveways, keeping the headlights of the rig ahead of him.

The nearer he got, the louder the whispers sounded as another set of shadows moved and danced among the others.

"Be careful," hissed a voice. "It sounds like they came back."

"Bull shit," said another. "We'd have heard them for sure."

"Maybe they walked."

"Maybe they ghosted themselves here you dumb fuck. Keep quiet and head towards the Post Office. Chances are someone let loose a grenade by mistake. Probably blew themselves to shit."

Shepherd stayed close, watching as he saw the two figures pass from a porch of pale stucco onto the lawn of the neighboring house. He didn't want to spook them too soon; the risk of losing the third that must've stayed with the truck was too high. Instead, he slung his rifle, drew a fat bladed knife from his belt and crept across the street behind them, never taking his eyes off their shimmering shapes.

"Fuck, it's burning!" said one of them as he saw the Post Office. It was burning now, more than likely the curtains had caught or perhaps some paper. The windows glowed and an incandescent light hovered above the roof.

"Hurry!" said the other who began to run.

Shepherd was just in time. He grabbed the nearest one around his neck, clamping his broad hand over his mouth before he could scream. Then, dragging him backwards off his feet, the pair vanished into the darkness before the other could notice he was missing.

Shepherd plunged the knife into the back of the writhing man, squeezing tightly as he bucked under his vice-like grip. It took twelve or so thrusts to finally feel the life leaving him and soon his victim went loose in his arms and fell to the floor.

"Larry?" called the man as he stood staring back into the darkness. "Where'd you go?"

Shepherd stepped into the heat and light from the fire and the man gasped. Both stared at the other as the orange and yellow hues flashed across wet leather and gleaming steel.

"Who the fuck are you?" he cried, beginning to raise his gun.

"It doesn't matter now," said Shepherd. "The keys, if you don't mind."

"Keys?"

"To the truck."

"Frank has-"

Shepherd fired and the man crumpled against the wall, clutching at his chest but it was too late. In moments he'd bled out onto the floor and his eyes glassed over. Shepherd walked over to him and searched his pockets. Nothing.

He made his way back towards the truck.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked as Nat pulled the throw tighter around her shoulders.

"I'm fine, babe," she replied. "You just carry on. It's probably just a cold. I'll feel better tomorrow."

"Sure?"

"Sure! Now cut the damn wood, Shep."

He grinned and cast one more worried glance over her sickly form before taking up the saw again. She'd woken up like that and Shepherd had stoked the fire a few times before even letting her out of the bedroom. He'd made a pot of tea for her, added lemon just the way she liked it and then bundled her up in a throw on the couch. That hadn't been enough for her restless spirit though. She followed him outside, planted herself on the porch and watched him work.

"It's going to be cool," she sniffled. "Just you see."

"The tub itself is coming tomorrow," he said, taking up the cut again in the two by four. "They'll lift it in for us if I can get the supports done."

"Sorry I can't help."

"Don't worry. You did plenty yesterday. Without that we'd be days behind."

With steady strokes, he was soon through and the wood fell to the floor making that hollow sound he loved so much. He took up another and fixed it on his bench, marking out the length he needed with his tape and the pencil in his pouch.

"Where'd you learn all this?" she asked him quite out of the blue. He looked up and wiped a thin sheen of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

"Jo'berg. I fell in with some shanty-town development when I..." he paused.

"Secret-squirrely shit?" He nodded. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I want to tell you so bad. Some of the things I saw there... Some of the shit that-"

"When you're ready," she said softly. "I'll be here. I'll always be here for you, Shep. Always."

He smiled then and knew deep down that she would be, that for the first time in his life he had someone who knew him, understood him and really did want to listen. He knew he'd tell her everything one day and that they'd laugh about it together as the world ended around them. But neither of them cared about that – they'd built their own world long ago, one that only they could live in.

Frank was sat in the cab of Utah's truck, playing with the controls that made the internals come alive. He didn't see Shepherd approaching from the driver's side. He didn't hear the handle of the door pop open and see the bloody hand reach in and yank him out of the seat, hurling him down to the asphalt floor. Something broke inside Frank, something painful and he could hardly move.

"You got the keys?" asked Shepherd, standing over him.

"I think I broke my back," groaned Frank.

"Least of your worries," he replied. "The keys."

"In the cab. Someplace."

"Thanks."

"Who-"

Shepherd put a bullet through his skull and watched him die. Then, heaving himself up into the truck, he found that the keys had slid down into the foot-well next to a stinking pair of steel toe-capped boots. Activating the fob, he started the engines and felt the machine rumble beneath his seat. Then, turning to the right, he aimed towards the dark ribbon of inky water and gunned the throttle.

The rig lurched forward, thundering down the road and into the yard of some dilapidated house. It smashed through its living room, took out the gas stove and the TV and tore its way down towards the banks of the river to where it looked the deepest.

Shepherd kicked open the door, threw the keys behind his head into the cot and launched himself out of the speeding truck just before it hit the water's edge.

He landed on the ground hard but a lifetime of HALO jumps had taught his instincts just how to roll them off. Still, it didn't stop the stock of the rifle from catching him on the jaw, bursting open his bottom lip and he cursed himself for an idiot as he remembered holding the thing all the way down.

He soon dusted himself off once the splash of the truck had soaked him through. Only the last few feet of trailer could be seen above the waterline and that was enough to satisfy him. No one would be driving it out any time soon and without a lifting rig it was as good as sunk.

Turning back towards the road, he made his way to the spot where he'd parked his bike. He was weary now. The rush had gone and he was trembling inside. All this was supposed to be behind him. All this was supposed to be in the past, yet here he was playing soldier again.