Bill swung the bookshelf to reveal another door, but kept an eye on his daughter.
“If we’re leaving, we need to bring some things with us,” Sally added as she grabbed Max’s satchel.
“Yes, of course. Hey, Miguel and Lisa, can you get two more rifles, two more pistols and extra ammo for all of us? Sally will show you where.” Bill turned back to the steel door and pressed the button where a handle would be, expecting to hear it release and partially open.
Nothing happened.
Then, the muffled sounds of automatic gunfire burst all around them.
They let loose their automatic weapons fire on Max’s house from all sides, spraying hundreds of rounds into the house. After nearly a minute, enough time to kill everyone inside but not destroy the food they were after, El Diablo led several of his men through the door.
In Spanish, he commanded them to find the bodies first and then the food. For several minutes, they searched through every room, some rooms twice, puzzled.
El Diablo knew there had to be a secret hiding area, so they looked everywhere for the doorway until he found it. A giant book case had hinges discreetly hidden on the kitchen side.
He tore into the shelves, knocking everything off: the new Cubs ball cap Bill had given to Max, a glass vase Max had brought back from Iraq, the Bible he had carried with him in the theatre of war, a signed copy of a local author’s book, and so many other reminders of one man’s life. All were tossed to the floor, useless remnants of a past that served no purpose in this present. When the shelves were bare as the day they were installed—the six bullet holes were new additions—El Diablo found the latches.
The bookshelf swung open, revealing the steel door.
El Diablo commanded his men to get all the C-4 they had from a bag left outside.
Clyde needed a drink. He slunk into his house and poured the remainder of his treasured Tres Generaciones into a shot glass and knocked it back. It was $100 per bottle before the Event, or what the natives called Los Diablos Verdes. Now it was priceless. He grabbed a bottle of Jose Cuervo that he hadn’t turned into a Molotov cocktail, and opened it, pouring it directly onto his arm which was red and angry from burns.
“Son-of-a-biiiiiiitch,” he yelled at the top of his lungs from pain and anger. This whole thing was not going down like he planned it. First that idiot kid Smith disappeared. Then, that idiot pervert Judas leaving the bottles so close to where Clyde was throwing the cocktails. “Ha! You get too close to the fire, you’re going to get burned,” he chuckled, picturing that fat tub of shit flailing around on fire.
He took a swig of the Cuervo, immediately spitting it out on his dining room floor. “Uggh. Shit! This is shit. You’re such an asshole, King. Ha, and now you have no house, and probably no life.”
He paced around his living room. “Too bad about your daughter though, she was a hottie. I’ll give you and Lisa that.”
His thoughts turned to the asshole drug dealers looting the food next door at Thompson’s place. That should’ve been his food. “Fuuuuck!” he yelled. “It’s bullshit, you greasy Mexican cholos.” He stalked to his guest bedroom, remembering the two RPGs Judas and he had found at one of the beach houses they had raided. Obviously they had been owned by some local druggies, as he doubted they would have passed inspection at the border.
He opened the door and looked in. There were so many supplies, stacked floor to ceiling, covering all the walls except above and below the window, the room’s only source of light. On one side were all the weapons. He had at first been surprised by all the weapons they had found, knowing how damned spastic the Mexicans were about bringing a gun or ammo across the border—a sure long-term pass to a Mexican prison. Then, he realized that some of the nicest beach houses they’d raided were owned or rented by cartels. Rocky Point didn’t seem to have much of a drug presence, because you never heard of people getting shot, but that was because this was where they all vacationed with their families. It must have been some sort of gentleman’s agreement.
Clyde chuckled at the absurdity of that thought.
He reached down and grabbed what he was looking for: one of the RPGs. One of—
“Where the hell is the other one?”
Judas hobbled around the side of Max’s house before collapsing in the shade for a breather. The afternoon sun was tucked behind the walls, preparing itself for its daily slumber in the west, granting the far side of Clyde’s house a brief respite from the battering. Judas’s whole body felt like it was still on fire. He didn’t want to look at himself, but he looked anyway. His arm was a scrambled mess of red and black flesh. He followed his chest to his waist and legs, seeing that he was mostly naked except for shreds of burnt material that must have been his pants, partially melted into his skin. His stomach spasmed and he heaved the remaining contents of yesterday’s meal. Those bastards are going to pay for what they did to me. He was going to destroy the warehouse with the RPG he’d taken from Clyde’s. He pushed against the rocket part of the RPG, using it as a cane to elevate himself. In his other hand he had an AK-47 that he pushed into the ground to support his other side.
Bill was frantic. If they couldn’t get the door open, they would all die.
The supplies Sally, Lisa, and Miguel had assembled were already waiting beside them as they tried to figure what had gone wrong and how they were going to open it.
“Hmm.” Sally was trying to connect the dots. “I got it,” she said triumphantly. “It’s the other circuit. Max had the door on another circuit.” She walked away from the group, back to the computer area. To the left of Max’s computer console and desk, in the floor-to-ceiling shelving unit was a three-by-five foot gray door she opened to reveal circuits and a row of batteries. She grabbed two flashlights on a shelf above this and turned both on. One she slid along the floor, its beam spinning like some sort of fun-house light effect. “I’m turning off the light so that we can use the power from the batteries. Ready?” She looked to the group.
Miguel grabbed the flashlight she’d slid to them and pointed its beam at the door’s release button.
“Ready,” Bill answered, finger twitching, ready to depress it.
Sally unscrewed the terminal on the closest battery, glad that Max had replaced the normal automotive battery contacts with ones that could be loosened by hand. She pulled this one off and the lights went out. “You see, Max wanted to make sure that there was enough power for everything so he partitioned several parts of his workshop into different circuits. I found out when I tried to turn on some of his tools.” She continued to talk and work in the dark, almost invisible except for her hands and face illuminated by the flashlight pointed toward the wall. “I knew about the hidden door, because I saw it, but I never tried pushing the button, knowing it probably wouldn’t work for this same reason. But, with a little juice…” She picked up the flashlight and shone it their way. “Okay, try it.”
Bill pushed the button. Something clanked behind the door and it opened about an inch, just far enough for them to reach in and pull.
42.
Damage Assessment
Frank Patton lay over Jeff Rohrbach, covered by a pile of wood and bricks that earlier made up the doorway and on top, one Bible, in perfect condition. If anyone were to pass by, they would assume anyone amongst the rubble was certainly dead. The pile moved, as Frank pushed himself up and off Rohrbach, knowing that his work was not done. He’d felt the man’s shallow breathing as they lay there. They’d both made it out, just in time, for which Frank was truly thankful even if he had no idea how.