The Day After Never - Blood Honor (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller) (6 page)

Duke shook his head and turned to go inside. “None of my business, buddy.”

Lucas gave Duke an annoyed look and moved to Tango to unpack the saddlebags and the travois. Doug joined him a few minutes later, and they went through the rifles first. The younger man examined the Kalashnikovs with a practiced eye and nodded as he set each aside.

“They’re beat but seem serviceable. We’ll test fire them later.”

“Probably Mexican,” Lucas observed.

“Now let’s look at the AR-15s.”

The assault rifles had all been modified to full auto and, based on the work, by someone with skills. The AR-15 was the civilian version of the M16 rifle, sold as single-fire only, but with a full-auto sear, disconnector, and bolt carrier, they could be converted with considerable machine-shop time by cutting out the lower receiver to accommodate the full-auto sear.

Doug smiled as he finished inspecting the last rifle. “Nice work. Where did you say you got these?”

“In the desert.”

“Duke will be happy. They look pretty clean compared to the AKs.”

“So’s the ammo.”

Half an hour later, Doug had counted the rounds and separated out the lots he wanted. He’d grown friendlier as he’d worked and, as with many of the people Lucas had met after the collapse, had been quite open about the circumstances leading up to his working at the trading post.

“I was stationed in Houston. We were supposed to ship out for the sand bowl, but by the time our lot got called, everything was going haywire already. Most guys on the base were sick or dying, and the few officers left standing wound up immobilized by conflicting orders from Washington. Ultimately, we stayed put, and later my group was sent on riot patrol in Dallas and then funeral duty. Man, talk about ugly.” Doug swallowed hard. “Anyway, you know how it went down after that. Eventually no food, no money, and one day, no chain of command.”

It was a common story: soldiers in their late teens and early twenties ordered to fire on their fellow citizens by officers who were themselves conflicted. Soon the contested zones were open warfare areas among heavily armed gangs of criminals, civilians trying to protect themselves, and the authorities. Once power went down and food and potable water became nonexistent, the military mission stopped even trying to maintain order and degraded into an effort at self-defense as the streets clogged with the rotting bodies of the dead. What the flu had failed to destroy, starvation, thirst, and desperation had their way with, and within weeks the cities were ghost towns, the vast majority of the citizenry dead.

“You never saw combat?” Lucas asked.

Doug looked away. “Plenty. All of it in Texas. Some of the older officers said Iraq was Disneyland compared to Dallas at the end.”

Lucas yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell Duke I’ll be in the hammock.”

“Roger that.”

It was midafternoon when Duke nudged Lucas awake. The temperature was cool, the air crisp. Luke’s eyes were slits when he looked at Duke.

“News?” Lucas asked.

“Gave her a shot of antibiotic – expired, of course – but she’s still in pretty rough shape. She needs a full course, Lucas. The wounds are already getting infected.”

“You have any more?”

Duke shook his head. “Nothing I’d use on her.”

“So?”

“I can send Clem up to Loving. I talked to the doc up there on the radio. He’s got some that’s still pretty good.”

“I can just take her myself.”

“Clem can ride a lot faster than you dragging teepee poles on that barn-sore mule, Lucas.”

“Hey. Tango’s a trooper.”

“Just saying. He looks tired as you do.”

Lucas considered the offer. “You’re probably right. How much?”

“Another five hundred rounds.”

“What!? You’re a thief, Duke.”

“Strictly business, Lucas. This isn’t a nonprofit.”

Lucas got out of the hammock and spit to the side. “Remind me never to play cards with you.”

“Easy come, right?” Duke said with a smile.

Lucas grew serious. “Think she’ll make it?”

“She’s looking a little better since the transfusion. In the old days, we might have been able to use some plasma. That would have increased her odds.”

“Has she come to?”

“Negative. She’s on the edge, Lucas. It could go either way.”

“Well, hell. Might as well go back to being broke again. Take the rest of my ammo, you swindler.”

“I’ll throw in a meal.”

Lucas nodded. “Tell Clem to stay off the road. Lot of bandits lately.”

“You tell him. He’ll be up and around again soon.”

Lucas shook his head. “I want to get back to what I was doing – chasing a herd of mustangs. Can’t do anything loafing around here.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’ll check back in when I’ve got the horses. Doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere.”

“You got that right.”

Lucas held the trader’s stare. “Duke? I’m leaving her under your protection. Means you’re responsible she comes to no harm.”

Duke nodded. “10-4, good buddy. Nobody’ll lay a hand on her. You have my word.”

“Get her whatever she needs. On my tab.”

“Sure thing, Lucas.”

Lucas walked in silence back to the main building with Duke, hoping that when he returned to the trading post he wouldn’t owe Duke for a coffin.

Clem appeared a few minutes later, Kalashnikov in hand, plate carrier cinched snugly to his torso, well rested after four hours of sleep following his shift, and ready to leave. Duke warned him about staying off the highway, and Clem nodded as he mounted up. He saluted Duke and Lucas as he departed, and they watched as he sped away on a sleek chestnut mare, kicking up a faint trail of dust behind him.

Duke elbowed Lucas. “Must be hungry by now. Probably smart to fill your belly while you can.”

Lucas checked the time. He’d slept longer than he’d intended – it would be dark again in a few more hours. “I could eat.”

“Let’s chow down before you hit it.”

“How long do you think it will take Clem to get back?”

“They agreed to swap a new horse, so figure, what, six hours each way at a fast trot, maybe a little more.”

“Think that’ll be soon enough?”

“It’s going to have to be.”

Lucas sniffed the air as they neared the doorway. “What’s cooking?”

“Fricassee of rat,” Duke said with a grin.

“Been a while since I had fricassee.”

“You’ll never forget this one.”

The meal was actually fresh fish from the reservoir, accompanied by corn and potatoes. Preparation took an hour, and when the meal was ready, the men ate until they couldn’t swallow another mouthful. Doug carried a plate out to Travis, another of Duke’s entourage who was working guard duty, while Lucas stood beside the woman, who had been moved to a dilapidated sofa they’d covered with a clean sheet.

Duke joined him and felt her forehead. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and ducked into his bedroom. When he returned, he was holding a glass thermometer. He pulled back the sheet, exposing her bandaged chest, and slid it beneath her underarm. “She’s lucky the bullet didn’t ricochet and do more damage. Missed her lung by half an inch, no more. Weird that it didn’t exit, though. Shoulder blade must have stopped it.”

Lucas hadn’t told him about the woman’s body armor.

Duke removed the thermometer and shook his head. “She’s burning up. Not good.”

“Anything else you can do?”

“Not really.”

Lucas strode to the door and swung it open. Duke followed him out and stood by his side as he saddled up, making small talk. When Lucas was finished, he patted Tango’s flank absently and adjusted his hat.

“Not very busy today, huh?” Lucas asked.

“You missed a couple of traders from down Pecos way, while you were sleeping.”

“Yeah? What did they get?”

“Swapped me the corn we ate and some other odds and ends for a peashooter. Wanted a varmint rifle, .22 long, for hunting.”

“They say anything about how it is down there?”

Duke’s expression darkened. “Not good.”

“Where were they from?”

“Didn’t get specific.”

“Ah.”

Rifle shots rang out in the distance, faint but clear in the crisp air, and both men froze.

Chapter 6

“You hear that?” Duke whispered.

“Yep.”

“Sound like it came from the north, didn’t it?”

Lucas nodded, his face grim. “Up the highway.”

They exchanged a glance. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Duke asked.

Another nod from Lucas. “He took the road. You told him not to.”

“Let me try his radio. He’s got a two-way. He should still be in range.”

They returned to the building, and Duke retrieved a handset from a row by the shortwave radio and powered it on. The trader spoke rapidly, depressing the transmit button as he did, and then released it, listening.

Nothing but white noise.

Duke tried again with the same result and shook his head as he replaced the radio in the base. “You know as much as I do.”

Another shot reached them, this one even fainter. Lucas glowered at the open door and made for it. “Time to ride.”

“You going after him?”

“Don’t see any choice.”

“I’d send a man, but…”

“I know.”

Duke’s hired hands earned their keep defending the trading post; Clem’s absence had already weakened their ability to do so. Duke couldn’t spare anyone further, especially with evening approaching. “He knew the risk.”

“Might have been some other poor soul.”

“Quite a coincidence if it was.”

Neither man believed in coincidence.

Lucas retrieved his M4 from his saddlebag, checked the magazine, and swung up into the saddle. “Time’s a-wasting.”

“Watch your back.”

Lucas rode through the gate, his eyes blazing, both at the idea that Clem could have been foolish enough to ignore his warning and at the ramifications for the woman’s survival if he had. Duke’s men were tough, but perhaps they’d spent too much time behind the walls of the compound. All it took to lose your life out in the open was one poor decision. He hoped Clem had been smarter than that, but a coil of anxiety twisted tight in his stomach, warning him not to expect much.

He tracked Clem’s horse to a trail that skirted the river and followed it at a trot. Normally he’d have let Tango set the pace, but he didn’t have the luxury of letting up until he’d confirmed what had happened. Half an hour north, his worst suspicions were confirmed – the hoofprints veered left toward the highway a half mile away.

Rather than making the same mistake Clem had, Lucas slowed and picked his way along the river, using a game trail wide enough for Tango to navigate without any problem. At a tributary fork, he was forced to use a two-lane road that led to a bridge over the wide canyon, and the hair on the back of his arms stood up as he galloped across it, no cover anywhere if a sniper wanted to take a crack at him. He varied Tango’s speed, listening for any telltales, but heard nothing other than the wind and the rush of water below as the river roared past.

Once across, Lucas weighed his options and slowed to allow Tango to catch his breath. As he did so, he spotted dust from the vicinity of the highway. He retrieved his binoculars from his saddlebag and draped the strap around his neck as he gazed through them. Definitely a dust cloud, and from more than one rider, by its size.

He continued north along another trail and, when he estimated that he was well clear of the riders, directed Tango toward the highway, his M4 at the ready. Fifteen minutes later he reached the road and stopped near some bushes to dismount.

The tracks in the dust that coated the road were fresh and looked like at least a dozen riders. That they were riding down the middle of the highway told Lucas that they weren’t concerned about detection – they were the most dangerous thing on the road.

He looked north and raised the glasses to his eyes. The highway was largely flat, with only a few skeletal vehicle chassis rusting where they’d stalled on the shoulder. It never failed to amaze him how survivors inevitably pulled to the side as their cars ran out of fuel, hope springing eternal that they’d be able to find more and return, he supposed – a hope that never came to pass. His grandfather had tinkered with the idea of refining his corn alcohol into fuel that could safely power a car, but he’d dismissed the idea as time had passed, based on Lucas’s admonition that an operating vehicle would be an open invitation to be shot apart, the engine noise providing ample signal in a landscape devoid of sound. Lucas was sure that plenty, surely the military, had managed the feat; but to him, in God’s country, the concept of presenting a target to the plentiful predators was suicide.

He returned to Tango, remounted, and guided him off the road, along a trail that ran parallel, crossing farmland that had gone unplanted or watered for half a decade, any fences blown down by the tornadoes that infrequently roared across the land. He stopped after what he reckoned was a quarter mile and eyed the highway again, and this time saw the distinctive form of a body on the far shoulder.

Lucas road hard and was off Tango in a flash when he reached Clem’s fallen form. He leaned forward and rolled the man onto his back, ignoring the flies that had already begun swarming around his head. A bullet hole, small caliber judging by the entry wound in his temple and lack of an exit hole, was crusted with coagulated blood, and Clem’s open eyes were vacant. Lucas took in the mangled fingers and broken arm – clear evidence of torture. He noted the two wounds in Clem’s abdomen that his flak vest had partially stopped before the ceramic plate had shattered; those would have been the rifle shots they’d first heard, the final shot the coup de grace after a hurried interrogation. There was no doubt that Clem had told his killers whatever they wanted to know. Anyone would have.

He’d seen every manner of atrocity over his years as a lawman; then, as a survivor, found the handiwork of the outlaw gangs worse than anything he’d imagined prior to the collapse. Even so, why torture a rider before killing him? It wasn’t as though he’d been carrying anything but his gun, which was missing, as was his horse, both no doubt stolen by the shooters.