Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home (3 page)

“Oh, yes sweetheart, I’m fine,” she replied with that tone she always used when she didn’t want him to worry about something. “We’re having a little excitement of our own out here.”

“What is it? What’s going on?”

“Well, apparently there was some kind of a breakout at the state hospital just around the way,” she told him. “Tom came by a little bit before dawn. He almost gave me a heart attack, banging on my door like that. He told me to lock the house up and stay here until he came back. I told him ‘bout needin’ to pick you up, but he was very insistent. I’ve been waitin’ like he told me ever since … but he hasn’t come back yet.”

Tom was the local sheriff in Lakeside City, Texas, where there was only one sheriff and one deputy. If Tom was out of bed, it meant something was wrong in the somewhat rural area in North Texas just outside of Wichita Falls, where Mike’s mother had moved after his father had passed a few years ago.

“That’s okay, Ma. You did good to listen to him,” Mike reassured her. “Did you do what he told you? Is the house all bolted down?”

“Oh, yes dear. But these two odd fellows showed up out back a couple of hours ago. I’ve been wonderin’ if they’re from the hospital because the two of ‘ems just been standin’ out there like a couple half-wits for quite a while now. I called Tom to tell him about it, but no one’s answerin’ over there, not even Cathy.” As his mother spoke, Mike’s heart climbed further into his throat.

“Ma, I want you to listen to me,” Mike said, using the tone he used when he needed her to listen to him. “How far out are they?”

“Pretty far. They’re on the outer edge of the half-acre just outside the yard. The both of ‘ems been leanin’ on that back fence like they needed it to stand. Probably drugged up or somethin’ would be my guess.”

“Have they seen you?”

“Well, if they have, they sure ain’t actin’ like it.”

“Okay,” Mike said, doing his best not to sound concerned as he spoke. “Ma, I want you to go get Dad’s gun out from the back closet. I want you to load it, grab a box of rounds, the weather radio, a little bit of food if you need it, and the phone, and go lock yourself in the middle bedroom. You might wanna put somethin’ up against the door, Ma; you know how iffy that lock is. But don’t you open that door or the house up for anyone until I get there. You hear me?”

“Well, what if it’s Tom?”

“If it
is
Tom, he’ll call you on the house phone to let you know the coast is clear if he finds the door locked. Then you can answer the phone and know if it’s safe to open the door. Something’s gone sour right now, Ma. I don’t know if what’s happenin’ here is the same as what’s happenin’ there. I just need you to get somewhere safe until I can get to you. Can you do that for me?”

YOUR CALL TIME WILL EXPIRE IN … 60 SECONDS
, chimed in the automated operator voice.

“Ma, I’m about outta minutes here. I’m on my way to you, okay? Just do what I told you. Don’t you try to come here. Promise me.”

CLICK. YOUR CALL TIME HAS EXPIRED. THANK YOU … GOODBYE.

Mike bowed his head and sighed as he returned the phone to the hook. He had no idea what was going on. Not here and not at home. But something in the pit of his stomach, a sickening knot of worry, told him that all was not right with the world. Right now, however, Mike had only one goal—to get home to Ma as fast as he could. He was all she had left in the world, and it was his responsibility to protect her. He’d made a promise to do so long ago at the grave of his dead brother, Houston. And everybody knows that you don’t break promises to the dead.

He dug around for change before pulling a business card from his pocket. There was only one person he could think of to turn to for help, which meant that he was going to have to call in a favor from an old friend. He deposited the coins and dialed the number on the card. The phone began to ring.

“Moto-man Transport,” a familiar voice answered. “You tell us where to take it. Just don’t tell us what it is.”

“Hanse … it’s Mike. I’ve got a problem.”

“Hell, buddy. You and everybody else, it seems like. If you’re lookin’ for a job, this ain’t exactly a good time to set up an interview. You got no idea what things are like in Dallas today.”

“Wanna bet? I’m stuck at DFW and I think Ma’s in trouble. I need to call in that favor.”

“Goddammit, you would be
there
,” Hanse sighed. “You better feel damn lucky that you’re
you
. Tell me what terminal and gate you’re at and I’ll send one of my boys to come pick you up.”

“I told you that you shoulda listened to Bennett, dumbass … but you didn’t, as usual. Just hang tight and I’ll have you outta that madhouse in a jiffy. How can my driver recognize you?”

“I’m the only idiot out here carrying a sea-bag.”

“Right … okay, listen up Hotshot. You’ve called in a favor on what just might be the shittiest day I’ve ever had without getting shot at. I’ve only got one guy near enough to get to you. But I gotta warn you, Mikey, the guy’s about as crazy as a loon on crack. His name is Or Ze’ev and he’s usually my go-to guy for more ‘shit-hitting-the-fan’ situations, if you know what I mean … so be warned. He drives like he’s got a death wish, but don’t let that worry you too much because I swear on my family jewels that the guy’s never even had so much as a fender bender. So don’t let his Evel Knievel driving freak you out.”

“Got it,” Mike replied. “I once fast roped out the back of a C130, asshole. I’m one of only ten people to ever do that and survive. I think I can handle a crazy driver.”

“You
never
get tired of tellin’ that fuckin’ story, do
ya? Oh, yeah, one last thing—not that it’s a big deal or anything, but Or’s an Israeli.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that one out as soon as you told me his name, you jackass.”

“Just shut up and listen to me, would ya? My man Or used to be a special driver for one of Sharon’s top people out near the Gaza, which, as you well know, means that he’s more than earned the title of ‘
badass
.’ He doesn’t speak much English, so begging him to slow down or screaming for him to let you out ain’t gonna do you a whole helluva lotta good. Just strap yourself in, hang on, and try to keep your stomach contents where they are … I don’t wanna have my guys cleaning what’s left of your breakfast off the floorboards, got it? Also, he’s got a few anger management issues so try not to piss him off. Hang on a sec, man, I got your driver on the horn right now.”

Mike could hear a radio or intercom squawking in the background. He thought he heard screams or the sound of screeching tires … or was it both? Then he realized that the sounds coming through the phone were also coming from just around the curve of the terminal pickup onramp. He heard Hanse utter a few quick phrases in Yiddish. Hanse was like a walking English-to-Any-Other-Language Dictionary, and he’d picked up a working knowledge of the language in just about every country he’d ever been stationed.

“He should be there any second,” Hanse said. Mike saw a black van come tearing around the bend, fishtailing slightly before the driver corrected and came barreling down the drive. Mike snatched up his sea-bag.

“Yeah, if he’s the only maniac driving a black van, then I think he’s here.”

“Great,” Hanse said. “See you in a few. Hold your hand up high so he can see you. But whatever you do, I wouldn’t suggest stepping in front of him. His depth perception has been just a bit off ever since he lost that eye.”

“Ever since
what
?”

Click
.

Mike put the phone back on the hook and held out his hand, but took his old Marine Corps buddy’s advice and stayed well on the sidewalk. The black van skidded to a halt directly in front of him. The passenger door flew open the instant the vehicle stopped.

“Come,” the driver told him with a heavy Israeli accent, waving for him to get in. “Come, friend, come. We must hurry.”

Mike stepped up, threw his sea-bag over the passenger seat into the back, and got in. Or, the Israeli spook-turned-private-courier, hit the accelerator as if it had just violated his mother. The sudden force was enough to slam shut the passenger door just as Mike was reaching out to close it, nearly taking off his arm.

Mike wasted no time getting his seatbelt on.

Or Ze’ev was not a
big
man, but he definitely had the look of a guy who’d eaten more than his fair share of shit sandwiches in his lifetime. He had a prominent and somewhat crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than a couple of times, and his left eye was concealed behind a large black velvet eye patch with what appeared to be a diamond stud in the center. The jagged ends of a diagonal scar peaked out from opposing edges. He wore black BDU trousers, secured tightly into a pair of highly shined jungle boots. For a top, he wore a khaki blouse with an almost ridiculous number of cargo pockets.

As the van entered onto a spiraling freeway onramp, Or turned towards his passenger and recited one of the few phrases that he’d forced himself to memorize in English.

“My friend,” He said with an eerie calm, in accent thick as molasses, and with a reassuring smile on his lips that looked well
rehearsed, like the smile of a flight attendant. “Don’t worry. I am
not
trying to kill you. I’m just trying to get us there quickly … okay?”

With that said, Or turned his eye back to the road, shoved his foot to the floor, and jerked the steering wheel. The vehicle bounced between the concrete partitions of the spiraling ramp like a pinball in tilt. Mike closed his eyes, held on firmly to the handle just above his head that he’d always referred to as “oh, shit” handles … and tried to go to a “happy place.”

* * *

Mike had met Hansel Hanse (whose father was a bit of a joker, hence the name) when the two were bunkmates in boot camp at the
Marine Corps Recruit Depot
near Camp Pendleton. Hanse was going into vehicle maintenance, while Mike had opted for being a grunt in the infantry. Normally, grunts and grease monkeys didn’t mix. However, the pair had become inseparable during those fourteen weeks of boot training. After graduation, however, they’d had to go their separate ways.

A few years later, their paths crossed once more during a firefight on the mean streets of Sarajevo. They were taking heavy fire, and Mike’s squad leader had radioed in for another squad to back them up. Fate had it that Hanse was the guy driving the five-ton truck carrying the reinforcements … right into a wall of small arms fire.

Hanse took an AK-47 round in the belly for his trouble.

The 7.62mm round had passed through the truck’s radiator grate and bounced out through the dashboard before hitting Hanse through the mess of his lower intestines. On the way out, the projectile had missed his spine by no more than an inch and took a chunk of a kidney with it before finally coming to a halt in the back cushion of Hanse’s seat. The squad of Marines who were riding in the back of the truck immediately scrambled for cover, leaving Hanse slumped over in the driver’s seat … a sitting duck.

Mike, after breaking his squad leader’s nose for trying to hold him back, made it to the truck. He dragged Hanse to cover, with the wounded Marine screaming bloody murder the whole way. In the chaos, a ricocheting bullet from the M-16 of one of his fellow Marines caught Mike in the back of the upper thigh.

Hanse survived his gut shot. However, there are few things in this world that can compare to the pain of taking a bullet in the belly. The upside is that they take awhile to be fatal … but don’t you ever dare try to tell Hansel Hanse that he was lucky! A comment like that would get you a kick in the nuts, maybe just a punch in the solar plexus if you were lucky. More than once, after slugging some Navy corpsman in the diaphragm for just such a transgression, Hanse would ask them, “Tell me, how
lucky
does that make
you
feel?”

Funny thing was … Mike hadn’t even known Hanse was the wounded driver until he got to him. He didn’t put himself in harm’s way just because he wanted to go after a buddy. Mike’s motivating thought had been far simpler—he saw an injured man in need of his help. The fact that the guy he saved turned out to be his old boot camp buddy was just a coincidence.

They both spent a few weeks in a German Navy hospital, and Hanse bribed one of the hospital corpsmen to bunk them in the same room. They talked it up as their wounds healed, catching up on old times and swapping war stories. Well … they swapped stories, anyway. But few of them were actually about war. Those weeks in the infirmary were now among Mike’s very few fond memories of his tumultuous years in the Corps … well, if you left out the part about getting hit in the leg with a ricochet that missed his ass by a fraction.

Before parting ways, they exchanged contact info and home addresses. But Hanse had gotten out of the Marines about a year before Mike. Apparently, there was a clause of the oath Mike had recited during his swearing-in that said something to the affect of “I will serve the contract term of duty or for as long as my service is needed.” The Marines blocked his discharge for an additional year when the towers in New York got hit and war broke out. Hanse, “lucky” bastard that he was, had made it out of the military in the nick of time.