“Sacramento?” Lucas repeated.
“That’s right. Sacto,” the man said. “S-Town. We come hard there.”
“Who’s we?”
“Blood Dogs, man. BD.” The man made a face and gnashed his teeth. “Woof.”
“Why? We haven’t done anything to you. I’ve never even heard of the Blood Dogs,” Lucas said. “I’ve never been near California, much less Sacramento.”
The man’s eyes darted away before returning to settle on Lucas with a malevolent gleam. “Word is you pissed off the wrong dudes.”
“Who? The Crew? Is that what this is all about?”
The man’s expression registered genuine confusion. “The Crew? Shit, no.”
“Then who?”
“You got an early expiration date on you, you know?”
“Who says so?”
He looked away. “I’m not saying any more.”
Lucas decided to switch to something that genuinely puzzled him. “How did you get here? Sacramento’s a long way off. Hundreds of miles, isn’t it? You walk all the way here, or ride?”
The man’s lips curled in a sneer. “We rigged a train.”
Lucas couldn’t hide his surprise. “A train?”
“That’s right, esse. First class.” He spit blood and grinned at Lucas like a demon, teeth stained with crimson. “And we would have killed your stinking ass if it hadn’t broken down.”
Lucas nodded as though he knew all about it. “Left you stranded, did it?”
“Not for long. Best watch yourself, homey. Blood Dogs got long memories and a mean bite.”
Lucas laughed dryly. “You mean the rest of you back in Salem? You think they’re going to bail you out?” Lucas asked, venturing a guess that would explain why Salem had gone dark. “Sorry to break the news, but it ain’t gonna happen.”
“Some bad dudes. You may have gotten over on us here, but when they…”
The gangbanger’s mouth clamped shut when he realized he’d given too much away. Lucas nodded again. “Don’t worry. We won’t kill you. Not sure what we’re going to do with you, but that’s not how we roll. Even if you’re an obvious lowlife, we captured you fair and square, and I don’t allow my men to execute prisoners of war, even if there are no written rules.”
“You think that makes you better than us?”
Lucas looked the man up and down, taking in the scars and tats and close-cropped hair and skittish meth eyes, and had to grin in spite of the bleak news that Salem had fallen to miscreants.
“Definitely not that.”
Chapter 30
Green River, Utah
Shots rang out from the bridge ahead, and the horse beneath Arnold stumbled and fell, taking him down with it. One of the slugs thumped into his plate carrier, but the ceramic slab protected him, although the impact hurt. He threw himself to the side just before the animal’s weight could crush his leg, and was already bringing his rifle to bear as he rolled in the beige dust that coated the highway.
The rest of the members of Shangri-La took what cover they could behind their carts while the group’s forward gunmen engaged the shooters, buying time for the others to protect themselves however they could. Arnold adjusted his rifle’s scope, squinted through it to see who was shooting at them, and spied a trio of scavengers, their occupation obvious from their matted hair, filthy clothes, and poor condition lever-action rifles.
“Scavengers,” he cried to the gunmen, and steadied his M16 before squeezing off a single shot aimed at the center of the nearest scavenger’s forehead. The man’s skull fountained a spray of blood and bone, and the other scavengers ducked out of sight behind a beam. “Got one. But there’s two more,” he warned.
“How do you want to handle this?” one of the gunmen asked.
“Craig, you and Jim and I can push one of the carts close enough that we can take them out with a grenade,” Arnold said. “No reason to let them pick us off.”
“Done. Which cart?” Craig asked.
Arnold twisted to where the column was stalled. “That one,” he said, pointing to one of the provision carts fashioned from four motorcycle tires and two metal axles. “Crawl over to it and disconnect the team while Jim and I keep them pinned down. Doesn’t look like either have scopes. And you never know. We might get lucky.”
Craig grunted and began dog-crawling toward the cart, which six people were huddled behind, the four men with their rifles pointed at the bridge. Craig reached it and explained what he intended to do.
“Sorry to take your cover, but there’s no other way,” he finished.
“What do we do in the meantime?” one of the women asked.
“Lie flat on the ground. They won’t be able to hit you at this range.”
“How do you know?” a man asked.
“No scopes. It’s why they took out the horse. Poor accuracy.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
Shots boomed from Arnold’s and Jim’s rifles when one of the scavengers showed himself, deciding the matter. “Do as I say or we’re all going to suffer,” Craig said.
“You need any help with the cart?” asked Ernie, the largest of the men.
“How heavy is it?”
“Heavy.”
“Damn. Think the two of us can push it to where Arnold and Jim are?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll cover for you. Unfasten the horses.”
“Why don’t you while I cover you?” Ernie growled.
“My rifle’s way better than yours. Now stop bickering and do it.”
Ernie didn’t look happy at being ordered around, but he said nothing more and slid his rifle into the back of the cart, and then worked his way around to the front and slid the harness free, allowing the horses to trot off. He sprinted back to the rear of the cart, where Craig had his rifle trained on the bridge, and retrieved his weapon.
“All right. Ready?” Craig asked. He glanced at the others. “Lie flat facing the bridge and keep your heads down. You’ll be fine.”
They obeyed, and he and Ernie heaved at the cart. The wheels grudgingly began turning, and then they were slowly pushing it to where Arnold and Jim were firing occasional shots at the bridge. When they drew near, Craig called out to them, “Now what?”
Arnold loosed three shots and crawled to the cart. Together they pushed it to Jim, and then it was blocking them all from the scavengers at the bridge.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” Arnold said, and together they trundled the cart toward the span as other members of Shangri-La laid down covering fire. They neared the bridge, and a few shots from the scavengers smacked into the heavy wooden sides of the cart, but didn’t make it all the way through.
“How long you figure the overpass is?” Craig asked.
“Maybe hundred and fifty yards. But they’re on this end, so we don’t need to get much closer.”
As if they’d heard him, the scavengers increased their fire at the cart, but to no effect.
Arnold freed a hand grenade from his vest and looked to Craig. “Another few feet would narrow the odds. Hate to waste more than one grenade on road parasites like these.”
“You got it,” Craig said, and they shouldered the cart forward another dozen yards before stopping.
Arnold pulled the pin on the grenade and lobbed it over the top of the cart, and had his rifle back at the ready by the time the orb detonated at the base of the bridge on the riverbank. He was already around the cart and running hard as clumps of rock and dirt geysered into the air from the explosion. Craig and Jim followed close behind, spreading out as they ran.
They reached the bridge and swept the area over the bank with their rifles, and spotted three corpses, two of which were nearly unrecognizable as such from the impact of the grenade. Arnold raised his weapon to scan the entire span and, when he saw no other threats, raced across to the far side to confirm there were no more miscreants lying in wait.
He was back a minute later and waved at his fellows back at the high
way. Several of the men retrieved the horses that had drawn the cart, and everyone regrouped. Arnold strode back to the column with Craig, Jim, and Ernie in tow.
Once the team of horses was reattached to the cart, Elliot approached and admired the nine bullet holes in the conveyance’s side. “Good work.”
Arnold shrugged. They’d had a dozen similar skirmishes on the road to Utah and had overcome all their adversaries, with only one man wounded in the frays. Being attacked by road vermin had become so routine it barely registered and, if anything, broke up the boredom of the long trek west.
“Let’s get across before more of their buddies show up,” Arnold replied, regarding the bridge. “Although the whole place looks deserted.”
“Must have been desperate or crazy to attack an armed group like us,” Elliot observed.
“Scavengers aren’t the brightest.”
“Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to do the math of hundreds against three.”
“Probably weren’t paying attention in school. Good riddance.”
They crossed the river and continued through the town, which was ghostly quiet as night approached. Abandoned homes lined the plain to the north, and even at a distance it was obvious that the town had been looted and stripped of anything useful and now served as a waylay point for scumbags and nothing more. An arid wind blew from the buildings, carrying with it dust and the scent of muddy water, but other than the trio of scavengers, they didn’t see another soul.
Once they were past the town, Elliot called a break and went to sit with Arnold and Julie, who’d joined him moments earlier. Sierra saw them and approached with Tim and Eve in hand.
“Please,” he said. “Sit.”
“Thanks,” Sierra said, and took a seat on the rim of the cart with Eve in her lap.
“Shouldn’t be much farther,” Elliot said.
“Maybe, what, a hundred miles or so?”
“Or so.” Elliot smiled at Julie. “How are you holding up?”
“I’ve had better months.”
“We all have.”
“What are we going to do once we get to Provo?” Sierra asked.
“Hopefully join their community and do our level best to blend in.”
“What if they don’t want us? Aren’t they all Mormons or something?”
Elliot nodded. “It’s true that they’re religious. But they’re honorable. There are worse things than believing in a creator.”
“The point is that some of us don’t.”
“Maybe you’ll decide you prefer their company to endless miles on the road.”
“Do you think we’d have to convert?” Julie asked.
“I honestly have no idea. But I’d advise you to think long and hard about everything we’ve done to survive so far. Would taking on a new religion really be the worst thing in the world?”
“So the plan is to try to blend in with a bunch of zealots?” Sierra demanded. “Nobody mentioned that when we were talking about what to do.”
Elliot’s gaze hardened and he fixed her with a cold stare. “Sierra, if you were still back at the hot springs, the chances are overwhelming that you’d be long dead. So would your daughter and son. Instead, you’re here to ask me impertinent questions. I’d suggest you consider whether your family dead is better than this alternative. If it isn’t, keep your doubts to yourself. Am I being clear?”
Sierra stepped back like she’d been slapped, and managed a single nod. Eve looked at Elliot with her startlingly lucid blue eyes and smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with believing in God.”
“That’s right, darling,” Elliot said. “Nothing at all.” He looked at Julie and Arnold. “We’ve saved a large chunk of the human race through our efforts. I have to believe that wasn’t by accident. Call it whatever you will, but there’s something bigger at play here than random chance. We achieved the impossible, and we’ve escaped our enemies more times than I can count. If you believe that’s all just chaos and entropy at work, I won’t try to talk you out of it, but I’ll just say this: if you don’t believe in ultimate good, then at least have the brains to understand that ultimate evil not only exists but has been winning for some time now. Look at the state of the world. It’s a disaster and getting worse. Gangs running the country, good people slaughtered like sheep, pestilence and violence everywhere… That’s reality. You can choose to believe it’s just our nature to be evil, or you can subscribe, as I do, to the idea that we’re all playing our parts in a bigger play than daily survival. Doesn’t really matter to me which you believe. But it will to the folks in Provo.” He sighed. “Look, all I’m saying is that if you have doubts about them, keep them to yourselves.” He switched his attention back to Eve and then raised his eyes to Sierra. “If not for you, then for your children. They deserve better than to be hunted down by wolves as their future.”
He stood and walked away, leaving them to mull over his words, the gentle soughing of the wind across the high desert a monotone melody for their thoughts.
Chapter 31
Abilene, Texas
Snake rode through the city limits and pointed his horse toward the downtown area, where Abilene, a minor trading hub, had several watering holes. While technically under Crew control, the town had been abandoned by the gang as Snake had been forced to consolidate power closer to Houston. Now it was wide open, with competitive small gangs vying for supremacy in a bloody ongoing killing spree.
That didn’t stop traders and the braver of the miscreants from frequenting the bars, where virtually anything could be had for a price: drugs, alcohol, sex, weapons, murder for hire. Snake had decided that because it was now a frontier town with no contact with the Crew, it would be an ideal spot to see what quality of recruits he could source. He’d been out of the field for a long while and understood things could change depending on who was running from what to where, but one thing that never varied was that killers could be found for a pittance in most trading towns.
His horse had proved surprisingly hardy, and they’d covered on average thirty miles a day, which after the first week he’d grown accustomed to, riding at night in the cooler air and sleeping during the day. No patrols or search parties had come after him that he could tell, and he hadn’t spotted Derek or anyone else following him, so he figured he’d gotten away clean. Of course he’d debated screwing the Illuminati over and living large on his gold someplace like Mexico, but in the end his desire to exact vengeance from those who’d driven him from his throne trumped his instinct to hide out with a meth pipe in one hand and a teenage prostitute in the other.
Snake sidled up to a hitching post in front of a water trough that stood outside a torchlit bar, and tied his horse to it before slipping his rifle’s sling over his shoulder and patting his pocket full of gold. He eyed the interior through a pair of open doors and saw the usual collection of trail bums and hucksters and misanthropes seated at round wooden tables, nursing glasses of hard liquor. Snake walked into the place, looked around, and took a seat near the back of the room. A young woman with a face like a cobra and several dozen amateur tattoos coloring her bare shoulders and midriff approached and offered a crooked-toothed smile.
“What’ll it be, traveler?”
“What’s everybody drinking?”
“Home squeeze,” she said, using the slang for local rotgut sour mash or whiskey made in home stills.
“Glass of that, I guess.”
“You betcha. Three rounds. Pay in advance.”
Snake fished three bullets from one of his vest pockets and slapped them on the table. The waitress grabbed them and walked away, her bony hips wiggling enticingly. Snake watched her move to the bar and considered how long it had been since he’d slept with a woman, but decided that he needed to keep his mind on his task and not get sidetracked by some roadhouse skank. She reappeared a minute later with a glass of cloudy amber liquor and set it down in front of him with another smile. “Three rounds doesn’t include the tip. How big you go could mean you g
et lucky,” she said, winking.
“Good to know. Shame I’m on a budget.”
Her smile faded and she stalked away, her femme fatale act having failed, and he took a cautious sip of the whiskey while his eyes roved over the room. They settled on a pair of hard-looking men at a nearby table who were staring at him like he was dinner. Snake lifted his glass to them and took another sip of the foul concoction, and the larger of the pair stood and carried his half-full glass to Snake’s table and sat down.
“You’re new here,” the man said flatly.
“If you know that, then you must be a regular,” Snake fired back.
The man shrugged. “Regular as any, I suppose,” he said, and took a pull on his drink. “Looking for anything in particular?”
“Depends on what’s being offered.”
The man nodded. “Name’s Eddy. I can get whatever you want. Anything.”
“That’s good to know. How about crank?” Snake asked.
“Some of the best meth around these parts.”
“That a fact? How much for a hit?”
“Five rounds.”
“Steep.”
“Not for the quality and this location, it isn’t.”
“How about mercs?”
Eddy’s eyes darted to the side before settling back on Snake. “Mercenaries for what?”
“A job.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that needs mercs.”
The two men stared at each other in silence for a few moments, and Eddy seemed to come to a decision. “Me and my brother been known to do that kind of work. What’s it pay?”
“Half ounce of gold per month. Job shouldn’t take more’n two,” Snake said, quoting a high price.
“Not a lot,” Eddy fired back.
The Day After Never - Legion (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 8) Page 16