The King's Highway (Days of Dread Trilogy Book 1) (21 page)

WARNING!!

Red River County is under
MARTIAL LAW

By order of our

County Judge, Sheriff, & Commissioners,

Looters, Thieves, and Commies

WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT!

Enter at your own risk.

All Visitors MUST Check In at the Detroit Meat Locker.

NO EXCEPTIONS!!

Jackson read then reread the sign. Martial law; no looters running around stealing people’s stuff or Commies. Had the Russians been here? And why would it say Commies instead of Russians? Was China involved, too? His shoulders relaxed a bit.

Law. He loved the law.

Though he’d really never even thought that much about it before, after all that had happened, he prized the law. His eyes teared. What? He was not about to cry. Through a little blur, he read the sign one more time. The County Judge and Sheriff—and whatever a commissioner was—ordered every bad guy shot. And on sight!

Whoa. That’s what he loved about rednecks.

The good guys were in charge, and he liked it. No, he loved it. Law and order meant normalcy. He touched the butt of the thirty-eight. Should he put the pistol in his backpack? He thought twice about it. Anyone could paint a sign. He vetoed the idea; he’d stay ready until he knew different for sure.

His cheeks hurt he grinned so hard.

“What are you smiling about?” McKenzie touched his arm. “This is good. Right?”

He winked and nodded. “Real good.” He exhaled, and his shoulders relaxed even more. “We need to find a safe place though. I want to check things out.” He took the cart’s handles and headed east.

A few minutes later, the road bent to the left. Building-shaped shadows came into view against the barely lightening, pre-dawn night sky. They all stood on the right side of the road, the left side still heavy woods. Nothing stirred. Fifty paces or so into town, a two-story round structure of some sort rose on the left. He pulled the cart closer. Had to be a big water tank with what looked to be a pump house in the front of it. “Let’s hole up there.”

He pulled the cart behind the building. A small area between the pump house and the tank seemed to be a perfect hiding spot. Soon the stars vanished, and the sky turned a light gray. Cows took to lowing. How long had it been since he’d seen or heard a cow? Sounded like a fair enough sized herd, too, if he could believe his ears.

The comforting noise seemed to be coming from the middle of the little town though—an unlikely place to keep cattle. He didn’t remember a feed lot.

If memory served, a smattering of houses and businesses lined the two-lane highway. But he could be confusing Detroit with another small town. The few times he’d been this way, the trip so excited him—going deer hunting and all—that he hadn’t paid that much attention to the landscape.

Could be someone was playing some sort of sick trick with the sign. “McKenzie, I want you and Aria to wait here with Gracie. If it’s safe, we’ll come for you.”

His sister threw him a smirk. “Of course it’s safe, dumb bunny. You read the sign, didn’t you? Several times?”

He resisted the urge to respond and refused to give in to an overwhelming desire to lay out the dozen—or hundred, or thousand—things that could go wrong. Instead, he turned to the boys. “Y’all come with me.”

McKenzie turned to Aria, talking loud enough that he couldn’t miss hearing. “Nothing to worry about, girlfriend. I guarantee it.”

Stepping to the edge of the hidey hole, Jackson hefted the rifle. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, he handed it to Al. “You know how to use this?”

“Yes, sir. Cooper showed me.”

“Think you can shoot someone if my sister actually turns out to be wrong?”

“Yes, sir. I have steeled my once timid self against such possibilities.”

“Good. You’re the rear guard. Stay where you can see what’s going down, but where you can get back to the girls if anything goes bad.”

Al nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Cooper, keep Boggs with you and stay hidden best you can between me and Al. Guard my north flank.” His little brother nodded but looked like he’d been hurt to the bone that Jackson gave the twenty-two to the nerd. “You got that?”

“Yes, sir, Colonel Jackson.” The boy saluted and held it until he returned the gesture.

“Alright then, guys. Let’s go.” He took a step then turned back. “If y’all have to make a run for it, forget the cart, the packs, everything, and run.” He studied each face. “Stay hidden best you can and head east on the south side of Eighty-two, you got it?”

McKenzie shook her head like he was crazy for saying such negative stuff. “Oh, man, you are being such a drama king. Everything is going to be fine, I know it. We should all go and forget all these army maneuvers.”

The nerd faced her. “Ah, but my fair maiden, your brother’s modus operandi is sound. To employ a cliché, better safe than sorry.”

She smiled at him. “Whatever, dear brainiac.”

Jackson hoped she was absolutely right, but if the law reigned in Red River County, he needed to know it for certain before he put his people at risk. She could call him whatever names she wanted. He intended to play it safe, and as long as she did as she was told, he’d be happy.

He kept to the shadows and posted Al at the post office building then crossed over to the Superette, the first building in the long row that ended with the Meat Locker if he remembered right. It was definitely on a corner. Cooper and Boggs crouched along behind him, hot on his heels.

Maybe with some law in force, the little community grocery store might even still stock some food items. He looked back to Al’s position then held his hand palm out to stop his brother. Coop nodded, remaining at the far corner of the building. He held a thumbs-up to the nerd then kneeled next to Boggs with his hands wrapped around the dog’s neck.

Jackson walked out to Eighty-two and turned right toward the one-sided downtown. He passed an art gallery. A man riding a horse from the other direction thumbed the brim of his cowboy hat as though it was just the start of another ordinary day with nothing unusual going on.

Throwing a nod back, he smiled. McKenzie could be right.

The sky grew lighter. Up the way on the left side of the highway—just past the row of old time buildings joined side by side—on the opposite side, several large pens held cows. Some cowboys had made the enclosures from moveable metal panels like his grandfather’s. So, those were the cows he’d been hearing.

They milled about. Some ate hay; others stood looking—probably waiting for a rancher to bring grain.

He remembered riding with Uncle Roy to feed his herd. All his cows stood back a little from the gate like they’d recognized the sound of his truck long before he came into view.

A little farther down, one of the makeshift corrals held horses, some donkeys, and at least one long-eared mule. Behind the cattle pens, wooden racks with strips of what looked to be meat were getting liberal doses of smoke. Several ladies tended the fires and a bunch of little kids ran all around.

Farther he went, better he liked it.

Looking back over his shoulder, he caught sight of Cooper. On his right, he passed Bennet’s Mercantile—at least that’s what the sign still said. At the far end of the long row of storefronts, most of them vacant, a sign indicated the location of the Detroit Meat Market just like he remembered.

The concrete walk in front of all the stores stood a foot or two higher than the little side street that ran parallel to the highway. Jackson crossed over toward the market then made his way to the steps.

A uniformed sheriff’s deputy sat behind a table on the store’s porch. He sipped on a steaming cup and chatted with an old guy who sat next to him. Neither of them took notice of him or acted like there was any hitch with him being in Detroit.

Jackson stepped closer, but stayed out far enough for Cooper to see him. “Morning, sir. This where I need to check in?”

The man looked down at him. “Sure is. Step on up here and give me your name.”

He held his ground. “Jackson James Allison, sir.”

“What brung ya up’ere to Red River County, son?”

“Oh, you know. Aliens landed, sucked up all the electricity.” He shrugged and smiled. “I’m trying to get to my Uncle’s Roy’s ranch.”

“Your uncle got a last name?”

“Buckmeyer, sir, Roy B.”

The guy sitting next to the deputy whacked his leg. “Well, I’ll be!”

The officer squared his shoulders. “Judge Buckmeyer is your uncle?”

“Well, no one told me he got himself elected judge, and he’s really our great-uncle, but we just call him Uncle Roy.” He looked back, didn’t see Cooper or the dog. He whistled the all clear, and the boy came running toward him with Boggs at his side. “That’s my little brother, Cooper. The rest of them should be here shortly.”

“Rest of them?” The deputy laughed. “How many kids you got?”

“Four more, six of us total.”

Wasn’t long before his little troupe marched up in its entirety. The girls pulled the cart, and Al walked a bit behind and to the side carrying the rifle like he’d done it all his life.

Jackson introduced McKenzie then Cooper nodded toward the nerd. “Hey Al, you gotta give the policeman your full name.”

“Certainly.” He turned toward the officer and almost bowed. “Albert Einstein Hawking, sir, at your service.”

The deputy looked up from his form. “Yeah, right, kid. What’s your real name?”

“That is my actual moniker, sir. My father is—or was—somewhat of a practical joker as well as a world class scientist, but I still can’t believe my mother conceded to his initiative.”

While the old guy next to him sat with his lower jaw hanging like a puppet’s whose ventriloquist had gone to Cabo San Lucas for the winter, the lawman filled out his form. “Close your mouth Toad, Steven Hawking is that genius scientist who’s paralyzed. You’ve heard of him, probably seen him on TV.”

“So if your parents named you that, are you smart, kid?”

Cooper piped up. “Way smarter than the average bear.”

“Okay, Albert Einstein, but if I find out different, you’re in trouble.” He looked to Aria. “And you, young lady?”

She told him, then McKenzie picked up the baby from the cart. “This is Gracie.”

“That it? Any more of you hiding out?”

“No, sir.”

“You kids go on straight to your uncle’s place then.” The deputy stamped a rectangle piece of heavy paper then handed it to Jackson. “Anyone stops you, show ’em this and tell them first thing that you’re kin to Judge Buckmeyer.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned and stepped off the porch.

“You looking to trade that hog leg you got there, boy?”

Jackson turned back. A younger man stood next to the deputy. The fellow nodded toward the thirty-eight. “I’ll make you a good deal on it. Got can goods and bottled water, maybe even throw in some of my famous jerky.”

Trade? But did he really want to barter the pistol away? “Well, I hadn’t thought of that, we’re in pretty good shape food-wise.” He glanced at McKenzie. She only shrugged. “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I guess I’ll keep it. Thank you anyway though.” He took one step then turned back and faced the stranger. “What about a horse? Any of those horses yours?”

“Yep, but it’d take an AK-47 at least to buy one of my horses. Have any more fire power besides your revolver?”

Jackson looked to the deputy then back to the younger man. He didn’t detect any deceit, not that he was that good of a judge. But sure looked like having one for an uncle should work in his favor. Why hadn’t he heard about his uncle getting elected?

“We’ve got forty rounds of thirty-ought-six, and that twenty-two pump there.” Al held the rifle up for him. “And a hundred-round box of long rifle ammo to go with it. Will all that and the thirty-eight get us a horse?”

The man took off his cowboy hat and rubbed his fingers through his hair. “Did I hear the deputy ‘ere say you’s kin to Judge Buckmeyer?”

“Yes, sir, he’s our great-uncle.”

“Well then, tell you what I’m going to do.”

Jackson enjoyed the man, but knew beyond any shadow of a Perry Mason doubt that he was about to get the short end of the cowboy’s stick. But if he could avoid pulling that cart the last fifteen miles . . . The thought took an overwhelming hold on him.

After some—probably not enough haggling—he made the deal. Gave the twenty-two and all the non-thirty-eight ammo for a jack donkey along with a canvass harness for him made from seatbelt straps. The man wanted the pistol, too, but once the bargaining shifted from a horse to a donkey, Jackson insisted the thirty-eight wasn’t part of the deal.

Before the sun rose over the top of the tree line, the mop-haired donkey stood hitched to the cart. The cowboy handed Jackson a wooden stick and grinned. “You’ll need this.”

Cooper grabbed the stick and tossed it. “No, sir, we won’t be hitting our Moe.” He pulled gently on the animal’s ear. “He’s a good boy, and he won’t mind pulling our cart at all.”

The cowboy laughed then pulled up a tractor-seat stool to the table and joined the deputy and the old codger. The laughing stopped when Cooper kissed the donkey on his cheek, blew into his nostril then walked down the road with the animal gingerly pulling the cart right behind him. Probably didn’t hurt that Boggs walked on Moe’s flank.

Jackson faced the trio at the table and smiled. “He’s also a chess whiz.”

A couple of miles outside of town, a wagon passed him on Highway Eighty-two. Instead of heading for cover, like he would have for the past two weeks, he gave the folks crossing the other way a hearty howdy.