The King's Highway (Days of Dread Trilogy Book 1) (16 page)

Boggs slipped by and stood at the other door.

He found the right key to unlock that one after several false attempts. Once he pulled the door just a bit, a horrible stench escaped.

He turned around. Only Cooper and Al remained. Both held a hand over their noses. “You guys go do something else.”

His brother stretched himself to his full height. “I want to see what’s in there.”

Al nodded. “So do I, sir.”

“Okay.” Jackson pushed the door all the way open and held out the light. It only illuminated a set of descending wooden stairs. The stench somehow got even worse, but he made his foot take the first step then the second. With each tread down, the smell grew unbearable, and the cellar or storm shelter—or whatever the room was—oddly became more lit.

In the far corner, beyond a table with a dimming battery operated lantern, a twin bed held two rotting corpses. From their hair, they looked to be about his grandparents’ age. The lady appeared to have died peacefully, but the old man was missing part of his skull. Probably blew his own brains out.

He reached the bottom and looked around. On the table, a rifle rested beside two boxes of shells, an empty holster, too. The pistol that fit into it probably somewhere in the bed with the old man, but Jackson didn’t think he could stand getting it. He grabbed the rifle, ammo, and holster.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Al, who had made it only as far as the third step, pivoted and almost beat Cooper out. Jackson closed and locked both doors, then hurried outside. He wanted a shower, wanted his old life back. But so what? Not going to happen.

His new reality? Get strong or get dead. Not ready to die himself, he wouldn’t let any of his people either.

With a finger to the side of his nose, he blew one nostril out then the other.

“What was it? What was that horrible stink?”

Jackson shook his head. “Don’t ask.”

Cooper, his eyes wider than saucers, held up two fingers. “Two dead people, Sisser! They were downstairs in a bed together. The lady was just dead but half the old guy’s head was gone.”

“Stop! Enough already, Bubba. That’s so gross.”

Aria stared at the ground. “Poor old folks. I hate this new world we live in.”

“Okay,” Jackson looked west. The fiery sunset belied the dull ache in his heart. “We’ve got some time before moonrise. Let’s get back inside and forget about what’s in that room.”

“No way. I’m not going in there again.”

He stepped closer to his sister and smiled. “Our stuff’s in the house, and that’s where I’m spending the next three-plus hours, but you suit yourself.” He turned, walked through the front door, and went to lighting candles inside. The match’s sulfur and the different candles’ scents soon overpowered the faint odor of death. Cooper followed right on his heels, and Aria not far behind him.

McKenzie and Al joined them a few minutes later, his sister still a bit red cheeked. Man, he loved her something fierce, but would he wish the little spitfire on any guy? He shook his head slightly, only to himself. Maybe the nerd was exactly what she needed.

Once he got enough light, he examined his new weapon, a pump twenty-two long rifle only, it said on the barrel. Cooper stood right beside him looking the gun over. “Why do you suppose they added that ‘only’, huh, Jackson? It sounds weird.”

“They’re talking about the shells, Bubba. Some twenty-twos can take shorter shells and some can shoot either.” He peered into the length of the barrel then emptied out ten shells from the holder.

“How many you got?”

He opened both boxes then stacked one on top of the other. “These two are full plus these ten.”

Returning the loose shells to their holder on the barrel, he made room in his backpack for the boxed ammo. Then he went to working on threading his belt into the new holster. Shame it didn’t come with its own belt, but still, it would work way better than having to tuck the revolver under his waistband all the time.

Coop turned and faced Al. “Want to play a game?”

His opponent looked at McKenzie.

She shrugged. “I’ll go read.”

“Sure. It’s possible that I’ve worked out a strategy that might win me an advantage.”

The younger chuckled. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

The boys set up their new-found game, a plastic fold-up chess-checkers-and-backgammon-combo set that Jackson figured his brother would leave food or water behind if necessary to have room for the game in his pack. The girls sat next to each other reading their books while he filled all the bottles with the water he’d boiled earlier.

Who’d have ever figured propane would be counted such a luxury?

Moonrise arrived exactly as predicted. How did they know all that stuff? He waited another thirty minutes or so. The rising crescent offered barely enough light to travel. Good thing he had the high-lines to go by. The King’s Highway. He pondered again the note and its weird, changing instructions.

Could his mother and McKenzie’s version of a supreme being be true?

It sure seemed there was a big guy or something up there watching over them. They’d had more than a fair share of good breaks. His father called it a weakness to rely on an invisible being instead of yourself, but how would he explain the evidences Jackson had experienced? No matter how compelling, Dad would call it all circumstantial.

Sure gave circumstance a lot of credit.

And what about that strange old man who looked so much like the guy at their apartments, supposed to be dead, but then playing golf?

Maybe he belonged to some hiking group or something. Jackson would have sworn he’d bit the dust that morning in the barn. The note was great though. On his own, he never would have thought of traveling the wide swath of green under the electric company’s pylons. Sure turned out to be a great cut.

The King’s Highway. Who was the king anyway?

Nope. He shook his head. God being the one directing them? He didn’t think so.

Then he remembered McKenzie’s choir concert last year—a song that repeated King of Kings and Lord of Lords over and over. But the fact that the Russians—or whoever had nuked the United States and sent its population back into the Dark Ages—was proof enough for him that no loving God guided them.

What would McKenzie say to that?

One nation under God? Not so much.

After a mile or so, the lines ran into a fenced forest of transformers and coils. High-lines ran from the enclosure in every direction.

Al dropped his pack. “I believe we’ve reached a substation.”

Pulling out her book, his sister retrieved the old man’s note then handed it to Jackson. He got out his compass and walked around to the lines heading north, but those numbers didn’t match. He checked the ones going south. An exact match. Now why would he want to go south?

“What’s the matter?” The nerd and others joined him.

“The dumb note wants to send us back south.”

McKenzie held out her hand. He returned the piece of paper. She checked the numbers herself against the high line’s marker then looked up with a smile. “What’s the problem? It matches perfectly. We need to go south.”

He looked to Aria. “What do you think?”

She lifted one eyebrow in a very lady-like shrug then touched his arm. “That I’ll go with you, whatever you decide.”

“Okay. Al? Cooper? What do you guys say?”

His brother shook his head. “I don’t know. If them numbers are the same, maybe we should follow the dead guy’s way. It’s worked for us so far. But I still think we should wait for Boggs.”

“Sir, my observations align the evidence that, thus far, the note’s instructions have proven one hundred percent correct. If in this instance, verification of its accuracy attests that it has become untrustworthy, we can always retrace our steps.” He looked nervously at McKenzie, who nodded her support, then back to Jackson. “If need be, sir.”

“Good point. Okay then, we’ll head south.” Jackson squatted beside his little brother and put a hand on his shoulder. “That dog will find us, don’t you worry about it. He’s got an amazing sniffer, and wherever he is right now, I bet he can smell us.” He swung his pack on his back, hefted the rifle, and pointed his nose toward the Gulf of Mexico.

Why would God—or whoever—make them backtrack?

Three pylons later, maybe a half-mile, the lines turned and headed due east, exactly the direction he needed to go. Alright. Only half a mile out of the way wasn’t too bad. But it still didn’t mean anyone overhead watched out for them. That old man had probably just been this way before. It wasn’t proof of anything.

But how could the old guy have known Jackson’s grandparents lived in Honey Grove? And what about the note changing from the first time he saw it at the stables? Only had numbers then, no words. And had he really seen the old man on the golf course? The dog had jumped up on him.

The inconsistencies tormented him; so much that he couldn’t explain. He shook his head and put all that out of his mind. He needed to keep his wits, not ponder unanswerable questions.

Off to his left, a light streaked skyward. Looked a little like a Roman candle, but instead of exploding into a ball of twinkling sparks that quickly faded, it burst open then hung in the sky lighting the night. Automatic gunfire erupted, followed by answering shots. The others froze in front of him.

He looked over his shoulder. It seemed more lit up that way. He shot ahead of the group in a full-out run. “Come on.”  He glanced back once making sure the others were with him.

After a hundred yards or so, he stopped at a small incline and turned around. Cooper joined him first, barely breathing more than normal. McKenzie arrived next. She dropped to her knees and bent over gasping, Al trotted in behind her totally out of breath, followed by Aria clutching her side. She didn’t look in too bad of shape, but the run couldn’t have been good for her wound.

McKenzie raised her head then managed between breaths. “Shouldn’t we keep going?”

“Not yet.”

The gunfire seemed to be slowing. The light of the first flare had almost dissipated, then another streak of sparks opened a second, lighting the night sky. Silence followed a short burst of automatic shots this time.

Jackson nodded east. “Let’s move out, but nice and easy.”

Fifty paces or so, the dog exploded from the cover on the far side of the highway and bounded for them. He stopped right at Jackson’s feet, then sat down and gave him that crazy self-satisfied look.

Cooper kneeled beside him. “What is it, boy?”

Boggs stood and bounded to the edge of the highway. He looked around one time then disappeared into the brush. Cooper jumped up and raced after him. Jackson grabbed for him, but missed.

He whistled then stepped toward the spot where his little brother vanished. “Coop! Get back here.”

“Go get him, Jackson.” McKenzie spoke too loudly.

He swung off his pack, whistled again, then trudged toward where the little booger went in after the dog. Twenty steps in, he found Cooper standing behind a cedar tree, peeking around it. The dog sat next to a man who leaned against the trunk of the next tree. The guy had a big rifle with a scope on it across his lap. He clutched his belly with both hands.

Coop stepped out in full view of the man all dressed in camouflage. “You hurt, mister?”

The guy held one hand up. Blood dripped from his fingers and stained his shirt. He looked at his hand. “Afraid so, little guy. What are you boys doing out here?”

Jackson stepped in front of his brother. “I’ve got some bandages in my pack, sir. Want me to get them?”

“No need, kid. Afraid I’m gutshot; short of an ER, nothing’s going to help.”

Cooper stepped beside him. “Who gutshot you?”

“The Russians. Those lousy, pinko Commies are stealing our grain, butchering our beeves.” The man coughed then spit out a glob of blood. “You boys got any drinking water?”

“Yes, sir.” Cooper swung off his pack, fished out a small bottle, and handed it out toward him.

The guy took a swig. “Thanks, young’un.”

“Anything else we can do for you?”

He thought a minute. “Yes. If you could pull my right boot and sock off, I’d be much obliged. Will you?”

Jackson sat the rifle down. “Sure thing.” He pulled the man’s right boot and sock off. “Other one, too?”

He coughed again and spit out more blood. “No, that’s good. You boys best get going. I’ve got some business to tend to.”

Jackson stood, grabbed his brother’s hand, and backed away a step. “Yes, sir. You take care.”

“And hey, you boys stay out of town now. Things have gotten crazy.”

“Yes, sir. We will.”

He took another step backwards. He hated leaving the man, hated what the guy was planning, but Jackson figured he’d probably do the same thing. He took one more step, but still couldn’t make himself turn away from the fellow.

The man threw him a nod. “Stay on the King’s Highway.”

Jackson stopped. “Coop, you go on. Tell McKenzie I’ll be right there.”

His brother nodded then hurried off.

Jackson stepped in close to the man. “What did you just say?”

The guy coughed up more blood then smiled real weak. “Stay off the highways.” He picked up his rifle and chambered a round then pointed the barrel skyward. “Best get going, son. I don’t want you kids anywhere around here, and I don’t know how much longer I can wait.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned and trotted back to where the others waited.

McKenzie held her hand out. “What kept you? Bubba said there was a soldier.”

He pulled her to her feet. “I’ll tell you about it later. Let’s get going.”

After two high line pylons, the rifle shot’s echo reached him. Cooper turned around and looked back, but Jackson waved him forward. He hated not being able to help the guy, hated that the Russians were stealing their stuff. He hated this new world he’d been forced into, and hated that he was seeing and hearing things that weren’t there.

Or had that guy really said to stay on the King’s Highway then didn’t want to admit it? No, that couldn’t be it. How could he even know about the old man’s note?

No matter which way he looked at it, he couldn’t wrap his mind around a benevolent creator who would allow all this evil to happen in the first place; much less take such a keen interest in him and his people as to send—what?—a ghost…or an angel?—to leave a note about following the King’s Highway?

And putting words in the mouth of a dying man, or was he an angel, too? Could be an alien and his little brother had appraised the situation spot on.

Too many questions. Way too many without any answers.

A soda, a big bag of salty potato chips, and a
Spongebob Square Pants
rerun would be pretty fine right about then. He longed to be able to let his mind go numb and stop thinking so much. He couldn’t have the sugar and salt and idiot TV, so he pictured the map instead. If he had it figured right, he was south of Sherman. He pulled out the compass.

The needle pointed east, exactly the direction he needed to be going.

He quickened his pace until he walked beside Al, who always seemed to be next to his sister. “When is moonset?”

“Ten forty-two this morning, sir.”