FORTY
Truman called in their plan as he dueled with his mental monsters. Close spaces had never been his friend.
But he wasn’t about to let her enter that house on her own. Rose’s screams peaked and waned and repeated; Mercy cringed each time.
He wasn’t going to hesitate this time. Keep moving.
Rose wasn’t going to die with him feet away, unable to make a decision.
He backed down the ladder, cursing that he’d left his flashlight in the SUV. His feet hit dirt, and he crouched to look down the passageway. Mercy was a few feet into the tunnel, her flashlight exposing the boards and dirt.
Every cell in his body screamed for him to get out.
He breathed deeply and focused on her. She was silhouetted by her light, but he saw the concern on her face.
“Are you sure about this? You don’t—”
“Stop talking about it.” He swallowed hard. “Seriously. Don’t talk about it. Makes it worse. Just push on.” He clamped his lips together.
She hesitated and then nodded. Turning, she started to crawl, holding her small flashlight in one hand.
Truman followed.
Odors of nature’s decomposition and wet dirt assaulted him, constant reminders that he was underground. He crawled, keeping his eyes on Mercy’s feet. Think of nothing, think of nothing. His head bumped the top of the tunnel and dirt showered him.
Visions of a tunnel cave-in filled his brain.
He stopped and lowered his head to his hands, sucking in deep breaths.
Collapse. Suffocation.
“Truman? You okay?”
“Yes,” he forced out. “Coming.” He lifted his head and pushed forward, focusing on the soles of her boots. The lack of echo and background noise messed with his brain, making the walls feel closer than the eighteen inches on each side of him. The air pressure seemed to increase, and his lungs struggled to function. Sweat dripped on his hands.
Five things you can touch.
Dirt, rocks, my clothes, my face, a board.
Four things you can see.
He squinted in the dark. Her boots. Her ass. The outline of her head. The light.
He kept crawling.
Every time he moved his hand it felt as if a knife sliced through his ribs. He focused on the pain, welcoming the distraction. Broken ribs? Probably. Didn’t matter. All a doctor would do was tape him up and tell him to take it easy.
His left hand landed in squishy mud, and he recoiled. The rib pain sent an iron spike through his nerves and directly into his brain. He gasped.
“Truman?”
“Keep going.” Don’t talk about it.
She moved on. He pictured the space between the house and the shed above ground. A hundred feet at the most. How far have we come? Seeking a diversion, he counted his hand movements, visualizing the numbers in his brain. His head whacked a board and stars lit up his vision.
“The ceiling’s lower here,” Mercy said.
No shit. His back scraped along the ceiling and he flexed his arms, dropping his upper body a few inches. The back of his belt caught on the same board, and a wave of panic rolled through him. He lowered to his stomach, inching forward on his elbows. How long can I do this?
Can I back out?
What if the end is barricaded?
How will we turn around?
He needed to stand; he needed to stretch his arms out to the sides; he needed to breathe. He took deeper breaths, his lungs fighting for oxygen. Every breath was insufficient. I’m suffocating.
“Truman! Get moving!”
He opened his eyes. Mercy had moved forward a good ten feet and lay on her side, looking back at him, her flashlight aimed at his eyes. “I can’t breathe.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Five things . . . dirt.
All I can feel is dirt. Don’t think. Don’t think. Get out! Now!
He pushed to his hands and knees and his back slammed against the ceiling.
I need to stand up!
He tried to push off with his hands, but there was nowhere for his body to go. He dropped back to his stomach, his eyes still closed, and dug his elbows into the walls of the tunnel.
Pain shot through his hand and he opened his eyes to the glaring light of her flashlight two feet from his face. She’d brought her boot heel down on his hand.
“Crawl. Now! Or I’ll kick you in the face!” she screamed.
He lifted off his stomach, his eyes locked on her bright light. Her physical and mental shocks had worked.
“Touch my boot. Keep reaching for it as we crawl.” She moved forward, aiming the light ahead.
He followed.
“Sing something,” she ordered.
“W-what?”
“Anything.” She launched into the chorus of “Live Like You Were Dying” by Tim McGraw.
“On a bull named Fu Manchu . . . ,” he recited. His fingers briefly touched her boot before it moved forward. They fell into a rhythm with the lyrics and he kept his gaze on her boots. They quietly sang the song twice, hoarsely mouthing the words. He kept his mind blank, his arms and legs moving on autopilot. “I spent most of the next days looking at the X-rays—” She abruptly stopped singing.
Truman halted midlyric and looked past her.
A piece of plywood blocked their way.
“Did one of the supports fall?” Truman asked, as terror flared through his body again.
“It’s the end.”
Mercy shoved on the board and it didn’t budge. Panic rocked through her.
This is how Truman felt through every foot of that tunnel.
She put all her strength into driving the heel of her hand at the lower corner of the board, and it moved.
Thank you, Lord.
She did it again and the board started to fall. She caught it and wiggled forward on her stomach, easing the board into a larger space. Fresh air rushed through the tunnel and Truman sighed in relief. He’d terrified her a few minutes ago, and she felt bad for screaming at him, but he’d needed to be shocked. She hadn’t known how to get him out of the tunnel, but then she’d remembered how Rose would sing to a skittish horse or sheep. The animal would calm, and its focus would zero in on the singer. It was the only idea she’d had, and it’d worked.
Hang on, Rose. We’re so close.
She gently let the board slide out of her hands to the floor a few feet below the tunnel opening and picked up her flashlight, scanning the room in front of her. The tunnel emptied into the basement. Stacks of bins and boxes crowded the low-ceilinged space. Elation ran through her. They’d made it into the house and might be only steps away from finding Rose.
“Mercy?” Truman pleaded behind her.
She hustled the rest of the way out of the tunnel and turned to give him a hand. His face and shirt collar were drenched with sweat.
“How are your ribs?” she asked as he awkwardly stood.
“Distracting.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It was.” He wiped his forehead. “Thank you. I didn’t think I’d make it.”
“You shouldn’t have tried it.”
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s find your sister.”
“Listen.” Mercy froze. “Do you hear that?”
“It sounds like two men yelling at each other.”
They worked their way between the bins to the basement stairs and ascended the steps, wincing at every squeak. Mercy glanced at her phone. “No service.”
“Not surprised.”
They reached the door to the inside of the house, a faint light shining through the crack at the bottom, and listened. One voice was in the house and the other sounded as if it came from outdoors.
“That sounds like Levi!” Shock took her breath.
“How would he know to come here?”
“He probably heard from Eddie that we were going to check out Toby’s story. If he’d left my parents’ house at that point, he would have beat any law enforcement who responded when I called later for backup.”
Or did he already know Craig would be here?
She gripped her weapon and slowly opened the door. It swung out into an area near the boarded-up back door of the home. Mercy swallowed hard, remembering her first tour of the old house. And the fly-covered body in the bed upstairs.
“This is none of your business, Levi!” Craig shouted from the floor above them.
It is Levi.
“It’s all over, Craig,” her brother yelled from outside. “You need to let Rose go.”
“Your brother has to know we’re here somewhere,” Truman whispered. “He couldn’t miss my Tahoe parked on the road.”
“Fuck off, Levi!”
“I’m calling the police!”
“Go ahead! Your other sister already ran off with her tail between her legs. I’m sure she’s rounding up every cop in the county to come here.”
“You haven’t done anything yet! Let Rose go before they have a reason to come in shooting.”
Craig laughed. “You think they don’t know I killed those preppers? They’re going to fry me.”
“They don’t have proof,” Levi argued. “But if you hurt Rose, they’ll definitely know. Release her before it gets worse for you.”
Craig hasn’t said Rose is dead. Mercy drew strength from that. Rose’s silence was almost worse than her screams. Almost.
“So you can back out on our deal?” Craig yelled.
“Our deal was that I didn’t tell anyone that you were at my parents’ house that night. I’ve kept my word.”
Mercy winced. That wasn’t quite true anymore.
“And my end of the deal was that I don’t tell them where you buried the body. Sounds like we’re still even.”
“Hurting Rose will wipe out our deal,” Levi shouted.
Craig laughed. “Oh, she’s already been hurt.”
Levi was silent. Mercy could imagine his rage. Hurt, not dead. “We need to get upstairs,” she whispered. “He’ll be distracted talking to Levi.”
Truman nodded, and she led the way to the stairs. She stepped on the edge of each stair, close to the wall, praying they didn’t creak. The direction of Craig’s voice told her he was in the room overlooking the front yard. The one with the boarded-up window with the slit for spying on visitors. Where he’d shot Truman.
Does Craig really believe we left?
She glanced back at Truman. He’d recovered from his trip through the tunnel, but he hunched his right shoulder in a way that told her his ribs were in pain. His knees and hands were as muddy as hers, and she assumed she was covered with the same layer of powdered earth. He looked as if he’d been caught in a dirt storm.
They reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the boarded-up window room, where Craig continued his conversation with Levi. They paused before reaching the open door.
“If you’ve hurt Rose, I’ll tell them you confessed the prepper murders to me.”
Mercy recognized the escalation in Levi’s tone; he was nearing a breaking point.
“Sounds like you’ll be ratting me out then,” Craig hollered. “I can’t have that!”
“Where’s Rose?” Truman whispered. Mercy glanced down the hall. Every door was open. Was Rose locked up somewhere else?
A whimper made the hair on her arms raise. Rose is in the room with him.
Truman nodded; he’d heard it too.
“Goddamn you, Craig!” Levi shouted.
A shot was fired from outside, and the sound of wood splintering came from the room.
Her weapon leading, Mercy ducked her head around the door frame and saw Craig lunge toward the boarded window—which now had a fresh bullet hole—and fire back at her brother. Rose was at his feet, naked, curled up in a fetal position, blood staining the old carpet beneath her. His back is to us. She nodded at Truman, took a deep breath, and they both stepped into the doorway.
Craig leaned against the boarded-up window, firing at Levi.
Rose raised her head, nearly unrecognizable through a layer of blood. “Mercy?”
In a split second, Mercy realized Rose’s face was covered with cuts.
Craig spun around, his gun pointed at her and Truman.
Mercy emptied her magazine as Truman did the same, and her ears rang from the rapid gunfire.
Craig collapsed, and Truman dashed to Rose as Mercy lowered her gun, rattled by the sight of the bleeding man on the floor.
It’s over.
She’s alive.
Rose sat up and leaned on Truman as Mercy rushed to the window. “Levi, don’t fire! Craig’s down!” she shouted before she peered through the slit.
Her brother was on the ground. Motionless.
Mercy couldn’t breathe; she stood glued to the window, willing her brother to get up. “Levi!” she screamed. She couldn’t move away.
“Mercy!” Truman said sharply.
She turned, adrenaline racing. “Levi’s not moving! I have to get to him!”
Truman had put his thin jacket on Rose, and she batted away his hands as he tried to check her bloody wounds. “I’m fine,” Rose insisted. He turned his attention to Craig. He pulled off his shirt and pressed it against the puddle of blood on his chest.
Mercy tore out of the room.
Craig’s eyes opened, meeting Truman’s gaze.
“Hold on,” Truman ordered. “Help’s coming.”
“Fuck you,” Craig muttered, coughing.
“Yeah, well, I love you too,” Truman said, pressing harder on the shirt he’d balled up against Craig’s wounds. It grew wet beneath his fingers.
“You were always such an ass,” Craig mumbled. “Always doin’ the goddamned right thing.” Foaming blood came out of his mouth as he coughed.
Too much blood.
Rose’s hand touched Truman’s shoulder, and she reached out for Craig with the other. Her fingertips danced across his chest, noting the blood and holes. She touched his mouth, felt the red foam, and pulled back.
“It’s not good,” she whispered.
“You’re not gonna save me this time, Truman.” Blood flowed from Craig’s mouth, and he went still.
“Craig!” Truman shook his shoulder. The man’s gaze was unfocused.
“He’s gone,” Rose said softly. “It was too much.”
Truman sat back, his soaked shirt wet in his hand, staring at the dead man.
What could I have done differently?