Hard Rain Falling (Walking in the Rain Book 3) (7 page)

The Suburban’s wheels squealed in protest as the big black vehicle ground to a halt. I wasn’t watching because I was trying to stay out of sight, but I heard an unmistakable click and an annoying chime. The sound seemed to be coming from just a few feet away.

Fuck, I thought, and risked one last quick look. The SUV was parked about twenty yards away, facing east on the west bound side of the divided road. The driver’s side door stood open, and the driver leaned out to shout at the approaching men. Still, I hesitated. Promising, but not a done deal. Then the man in the front passenger seat suddenly jumped out of the vehicle, ran around to the back, and emerged to stand next at the rear door on the driver’s side.

“Billy, Desmond, get your asses moving. Word’s out on the NG net and we need to RTB. Come on, men,” the driver exhorted.

Despite the excitement in the driver’s voice, the two big men carrying the long spear-like launchers kept up their same deliberate but still speedy pace. As the man standing next to the open rear door finally moved over a few feet, I got a good look inside the big SUV. The door on the other side stood open as well and I could clearly make out a pair of vacant bucket seats. Also, thrust between the two seats was a long black plastic case. I recognized the type. I was going to make an assumption of no more ambushers crammed into the back row seating. That meant four men, all looking away from me but armed and primed to commit violence.

I waited for the moment, and then struck with instant aggression as soon as the two men passed by and presented me with their backs. My first shot struck the driver in the throat; the second, slightly off center of his nasal cavity. Before the body could begin to fall, I re-centered the front sight post on the chest of the helpful young man and double tapped; chest and head. Before either body could hit the ground I was on to the leading RPG shooter, the one closest to the still idling vehicle.

Fearful these two burly men wore body armor, I shot the first man three times, aiming for the upper back and the back of his head. He wore some type of tactical helmet, but from the puff of scarlet, I knew one of my bullets met flesh.

The fourth man reacted quickly to the shots, dropping the launcher and clawing at the weapon slung across his chest. He spun, bringing the submachine gun up, even as I squeezed the trigger.

Rushing that first shot, I clipped his gun arm with a .308 Winchester bullet. Like a second elbow suddenly appeared as if by magic, his forearm flopped loosely and the man’s hand lost grip on his weapon. The man cried out, his shriek of agony audible even over the sound of my second shot as I scored another hit, this one just below the knee. That one was on purpose. Since I screwed up the kill shot, I figured I’d take one more chance.

With a ragged scream, the wounded man tumbled to the asphalt. Rifle up, I closed in quickly, using a rapid heel to toe shuffling crouch my father showed me—except this wasn’t paintball. Of course, I had the feeling that it wasn’t exactly paintball training then either.

I felt the adrenaline boost and my eyes rapidly scanned back and forth across the bloody scene. I passed close enough to the still burning Humvee to catch a whiff of overcooked pork and I resisted the urge to shoot the downed man again.

Movement drew my attention to the third man I’d shot; the other RPG shooter with the neck wound was jerking spasmodically. Probably just nerves, but I shot him in passing again anyway. The bullet punched through his face and ricocheted off the roadway with a whine. Crap. I’d have to watch that.

As I reached the last man, I’d slung the rifle in exchange for the Glock. He was now issuing a mewling whimper, as if his likely fate became clear through the pain. Using his one good arm, he was alternating between pressing down on his leg wound and trying to grasp the weapon still strapped to his body. He wasn’t having much luck doing either.

I considered just killing him—the urge to build a mound of decapitated corpses was still clamoring at the back of my mind—or staking him out on an anthill for a little interrogation before allowing him to die. I really wanted to kill this man, completing the set of those responsible for killing Jay and Sergeant Halloran. And for trying to kill Amy. That thought nearly sealed his fate as I took up slack on the trigger.

I was looking at the crumpled form of Private Jason Grady, not the man I was about to kill. Just a few years older than me, still as much a kid as I was, and possessing a sense of humor and a shy smile; I’d caught him staring at Lori more than once back when we loaded the Humvees for our trip. It as a sweet look, like the puppy love thing I saw some of my classmates exchange in school.

Now he was dead, and nothing I could do would bring him back. I looked down at the crying man. I broke every rule in my personal survival guide by taking my eyes off the prisoner, but he’d failed to take advantage.

“This is your lucky day,” I hissed through gritted teeth. The bleeding man looked up at me for the first time. He was pale, even pasty looking, and not all of it was from shock and blood loss. I pegged him as being in his late thirties, with flecks of gray in his short brown hair. The fall had dislodged his helmet, and I saw he had some kind of headset integral to the system. Like the rocket, this looked pretty high tech for a band of road raiders.

“Who are you?” the man croaked, his voice abused by the screaming.

“Just think of me as your instant karma, bitch. You killed my friends, and now I’ve killed yours. You want to join them? Just say the fucking word.”

The man’s eyes widened impossibly as he digested my words. Ignoring his reaction, I stripped off his weapons and gear with deft, practiced hands. I was way more accustomed doing this to corpses, but the wounded man barely resisted. I was doing stupid again, since Nick taught me disarming a prisoner was a two man job. I’d never thought of it before, since I never took prisoners as a rule.

Once I had the man stripped of everything but his camo clothing, I pulled a partial roll of duct tape from my emergency kit. Using the sticky tape, I wrapped a few rounds over his wounds and then used the last of the roll to secure his hands behind his back. He started crying and moaning again, until I leaned in and whispered in his ear.

“Keep struggling,” I hissed, “When I’m roasting you over a fire pit, I want the meat to be nice and juicy.”

That got the man to screaming again, but this time I didn’t think it was his arm. I’d really gotten inside the poor man’s head, and I was just thinking about how I was going to extract the information I wanted when I heard the unmistakable sound of engines once again.

Looking up, I saw two five ton military trucks roaring down the road. They came from the east, barreling down Interstate 40. Lifting my binoculars, I was pleased to see the lead vehicle flying a small flag. I recognized the seal of the State of Oklahoma. Well, I was completely exposed out here and once again outnumbered. The beast in my heart wanted me to take up a defensive position and prepare to fight to the end. Screw that. Fortunately, I seemed to be learning from my mistakes. As many as I made, I was getting quite the education.

Hoping for the best, I stepped away from my prisoner, sat down on the hot asphalt, and laid the rifle down gently next to me. The .308 was heavy and some might call it an ugly design, but the weapon had once again performed flawlessly. I gave the receiver a little pat and waited to see what happened.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“So you just shot them?”

I hate it when people point guns at me. Before the lights went out, even paintball guns made me feel uncomfortable. Part of that was from my father’s incessant gun safety lectures, while another was some primitive sense of wrongness inherent in being under the power of another. I hated it then. This was worse.

Three soldiers had me covered while the fourth went to check on Jay. I could see the look of defeat wash across the medic’s face as he shook his head upon seeing the private’s condition. Nothing he could do. Not even if they had an operating room standing by. Instead, I watched the man kneel and remove one of the young man’s dog tags.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” I replied evenly, keeping my cool. This man didn’t know me from Adam, but he had at least one dead soldier and probably more, as well as three unidentified corpses and a wounded man who looked like he was going into shock. In short, a hot mess.

“Wanna tell me the whole story?” he finally asked after carefully surveying the scene.

So I did. I gave him some basic background, much of which he already knew, and then took him through what happened from the moment we came to a halt in the Humvee up until his two truckloads of soldiers rolled up.

“And I’m guessing you guys are the folks from McAlester we were supposed to meet?”

As I’d related the tale, I’d seen the three men on guard relax a bit. They kept me covered still, but also glanced around in all directions as if waiting for the ambushers to return.

“Yes, and I just got off the horn with someone purporting to be with your convoy. They’re headed back this way. You said you weren’t going to take action at first. But something changed your mind. Care to share what that was?”

The staff sergeant was sharp, and he looked like many of the soldiers I’d seen in recent weeks; worn down to a sharp edge, with bags under his eyes and a few days growth of beard.

“Well, Staff Sergeant, you’re right. That sniper had me pissing my pants. Then that helpful soul,”—I nodded, not wanting to use my hands—“opened the rear door of the SUV and I saw that Pelican case. That’s a real fancy one, and I figured…”

The staff sergeant interrupted me with a small grin, the first positive expression I’d seen so far.

“You figured one of them was your sniper, right?”

I nodded.

“Figured so. Worth trying, anyway. If I’d been wrong, probably wouldn’t have felt the bullet.”

“Fuck, kid,” he muttered under his breath and the waved for me to lower my hands; which was good because my arms were starting to ache something fierce.

“You got any ID? Something to back up your story?”

“Shirt pocket. ID card from Fort Chaffee. Also got a letter from Colonel Hotchkins explaining how the Arkansas National Guard was temporarily loaning me one of their Hummers.”

“Shit, son, you got friends in high places. Let me see ‘em.”

Once the men turned away and joined the defensive perimeter already set up by the rest of the sergeant’s squad, I fished out the card and the sealed plastic baggie I had for the letter. The sergeant examined both quickly and returned them to my possession.

“Luke Landon, eh? So why are the Arkansas National Guard hiring civilian military contractors? Why not just reactivate you?”

I had to grin at his familiar question.

“Sergeant? Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes, and it’s Staff Sergeant Jenkins. What is this secret?”

“I’m just a plain old civilian, Staff Sergeant Jenkins. No prior service. And I’m sixteen years old. I don’t make a point of advertising that for obvious reasons, but if the other convoy is coming back like you said, my fiancée is riding with them. She will be fifteen next month. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

Jenkins just goggled at me for a second, and then visibly shook his head. He changed gears.

“You were part of that deal getting those local girls freed, weren’t you? I mean, some of our girls stranded in Bentonville. We heard a couple of them were with the convoy. They were going to see if they could track down the families, right?”

“Yes, I was there. I met Lori Thompson when we rescued her from some bad guys. They’d bought her from those assholes running the displaced persons camp. Summer is her little sister and one of the little ones we pulled out of the school. Junior high girls.”

“Good for them. As I’m sure you’ve seen; the world’s kinda gone to shit. McAlester’s no different.”

He clammed up after that. I got it. No sense advertising the town’s weaknesses to some stranger. I decided to brighten his day a bit.

“The eight sets of boards and modules for your Bradleys are safe, Staff Sergeant. They were in the second truck. Poor Sergeant Halloran and his driver were on point.”

Jenkins gave a relieved sigh.

“That’ll help. We’re spread mighty thin. Those will be great if we can get them up and running.”

I could tell he still wanted to tread lightly on the status back home so I decided to lay my cards on the table.

“Staff Sergeant, I have no interest in McAlester beyond helping my new friends get home and maybe find out if any of their friends’ parents are still alive. I’m headed to Texas. I figure the town is a war zone. Ya’ll have a lot of problems all over the state. And it’s like that everywhere. Look, Jay told me about what happened in Lawton, okay.”

“Jay? Who’s that?”

“Private Jason Grady. Jay. I’d only just met him, but he was a friend. He said he heard the federal troops at Fort Sill just sat on their asses and watched Lawton burn. So like I said, I know things are tough. I just want to know what I’m getting myself, and my friends, into in your town.”

Staff Sergeant seemed to be mulling something over in his head.

“I’m sorry about your friend. The Oklahoma National Guard isn’t that big, Luke; less than ten thousand men at 100% manning. We are way below that; half at best. I didn’t know your friend Jay, but Sergeant Halloran was a friend of mine. What are they going to tell his family?”

I sighed. Great, I love sharing this kind of news.

“The sergeant’s wife and daughter died in the fires. I don’t know if he has any other family. Private Grady has his mother and younger brother in the dependents group on base in OKC. Tell me no one is going to turn them out, Staff Sergeant.”

Jenkins looked like he’d been punched in the gut. He shook his head.

“We’ll take care of our own. Okay, where to start… you know what Big Mac is?”

“No, Sir. I’m guessing you mean something besides the burger.”

Jenkins nodded. “It’s the Oklahoma State Pen. There were over nine hundred maximum and medium security prisoners in there the day the lights went out. Lots less now.”

With a sigh, Jenkins dropped his eyes and tried to parse out some meaning from the cracked asphalt of the roadway. When he spoke again, his voice sounded rougher, laden with emotion.

“They rioted about a week in. A lot of the guards stopped showing up, but the few that did their duty got taken. The inmates tried for a breakout, but we got most of our force there in time to stop them; the bulk of them anyway. Maybe forty or fifty got away, we kept the rest in the bottle.”

I sensed that wasn’t the end of the story.

“We tried to negotiate with the survivors. They would accept nothing less than release and full pardons. You have to understand, this is where we kept the worst of the worst; death row, the top gang leaders, the works. Captain Bisley wouldn’t cave, so they started torturing the captured guards. It was horrible, Luke. Went on for days.”

I thought about Sean Trimble and nodded along in sympathy.

“Then we could smell the fires. The cook fires. The inmates, we’re pretty sure they ate the guards when they were done. After that, I think they started in on other prisoners. If you stand perimeter duty today, you can smell it in the air sometimes.”

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’ve smelled it before. I was almost the guest of honor for one of those feasts.”

Shuddering at the memory, I came back to the situation at hand.

“Is it okay for me to get up? This road is hard on my bony butt.”

“Shit. Sure, Luke, you’re good.” He looked around at his men and spoke up with his command voice to be heard by all the members of his squad.

“Boys, Mr. Landon here is a survivor of the earlier ambush on our friends from OKC. He was working security on loan from the ANG. And, as you all have likely gathered, he’s responsible for getting us a little payback for our fallen brothers. Any questions?”

Surprisingly, there was one. The soldier, a tall skinny young man with fair skin that looked permanently sunburned, spoke up without taking his eyes off the surrounding countryside.

“Do you know how ya’ll got ambushed? I mean, we were just meeting here at a set of grid coordinates between Highway 69 and The Turnpike. No mile markers or any of that shit. How’d they know the convoy was going to stop right here?”

I looked over at the staff sergeant, who gave me a neutral look that said answer if you want.

“I think these ass clowns have access to your communications, Specialist. That’s the only answer I can think of. But, why don’t you ask the prisoner? If you can’t get him talking, I probably can. And I haven’t checked the Suburban yet, but I’ll bet it has some goodies that will help you figure out who did this.”

I paused, and then decided to press my luck.

“Oh, and before I forget… you guys are welcome to any legitimate intelligence from that Suburban, but I claim right of salvage. Under the wasteland rules, if you kill them, their shit is yours.”

I was paraphrasing a line from a Vin Diesel movie I saw one time. Not a bad movie but I thought the ending was really shitty. I caught the movie one night on cable with my dad, and when the credits started rolling he just grunted and complained his agreement about ‘that damned French ending.’ That was his code for a decent movie ruined with a depressing resolution in the final act.

Somebody laughed. I found the guy and gave him my best dead eyed stare. He looked away.

Then I heard the roar of more engines and thought, Wow, this place sure is busy all the sudden. Just ambush a military column and watch the ants stirring up in response.

“I think we will have to discuss your salvage rights later, Mr. Landon,” Sergeant Jenkins deadpanned. “That’s either your friends returning or these ambushing motherfuckers are getting reinforcements.”