by Lopez, Rob
“I can have Packy take me in,” said Dee. “I don’t need to wait.”
Rick kept his gaze on John Yorkin. “There has to be a guard with every driver. Just be patient.”
Lauren arrived from the lodge, looking at the structure they’d been erecting. “So this is your device for torturing little girls,” she said lightly.
“And boiling them, too,” said Scott. “In case we run short of stew.”
“Have you guys never heard of gentle persuasion?”
“Never trained for that. Have you talked to her yourself?”
Lauren shook her head. “April’s probably better at that. Especially now she’s all maternal. Maybe she can encourage the girl to see it as a new game.”
John Yorkin stormed out of his cabin with a shotgun and headed for the forest.
“Heads up,” said Rick. “We need to get over there ASAP.”
“Trouble?” asked Lauren.
“Yeah, there’s a couple of heads that need to be knocked together. Forcefully.”
“That’s our type of persuasion,” indicated Scott to Lauren as he dropped his hammer and picked up his rifle.
“But what about my journey?” said Dee.
“Later,” said Rick. “Your friend will still be there tomorrow, but I can’t say the same for the Clement brothers.”
“I can go with her,” offered Lauren.
“You sure?”
“Of course. I could do with getting out.”
Rick hesitated. “You watch yourself.”
“I could say the same for you. That Yorkin guy looks like he means business.”
John Yorkin disappeared into the forest, his pace unabated.
“Come on,” said Rick to Scott, “before one of those idiots gets themselves killed.”
28
“I don’t think your husband appreciates the work I do,” said Dee as the Blazer bounced on the winding back road to Black Mountain.
“He does. He’s just got other things on his mind,” replied Lauren. She could also have said that Rick found Dee’s work valuable as a source of intel on the other communities, but decided it was better not to let that slip. Regardless, Rick considered Dee to be an important member of the community.
He just didn’t have the time or the temperament to mollycoddle her.
Lauren chose to sit in the back, giving up the passenger seat for Dee, because she wanted to see how Packy would cope with the object of his affections being so close. Considering how much Packy liked to talk when he drove, it was amusing to see him utterly muted by Dee’s presence.
“What’s your take on Rick’s appreciation of Dee?” Lauren asked him cheekily.
“Uhm, uh, I, uh … well, uhm.”
Lauren stifled her laughter at his discomfort. “Don’t forget to keep your eye on the road, big boy.”
In his distraction, Packy was straying over the center line. He was also blushing. Lauren wished she could have taken a picture. When she got back, she would have to tell April just how wrong she was.
Without social media, gossip was the primary entertainment in the camp.
Coming to the end of the mountain road, they passed by the abandoned homes of Ridgecrest and hit I-40 until they reached the barricade at the edge of Black Mountain. Packy pulled up when the armed guards flagged him down. A big man stepped up to the car and peered inside.
“You again,” he said wearily when he saw Packy. “What you got this time?”
Back in his role as entrepreneur, Packy regained his brashness. “A few choice delicacies for the good people of your town. And for you gentlemen, I have a highly sought-after jar of honey, free of charge. Because I know you’re going to go crazy over it. You and this honey go together.”
The big man wasn’t impressed. “Are you saying I’m a bear?”
Packy momentarily lost his poise. “Uh, dude, bears don’t eat honey. That’s, like, just a kid’s cartoon.”
“You’re calling me a kid, now?”
“No.”
“You’re trying to bribe me?”
“No, no, no. You’re getting me all wrong. It’s just, uh, a gift, you know? Appreciation. That’s it. I appreciate what you guys do, and, uh, as a token, uhm, of my appreciation, I … got you something.”
The big man stared at him, his face a picture of incomprehension.
“Just take the honey, okay?” said Packy.
The man frowned. “Hand in your weapons and go straight on in.”
Lauren dropped the magazine from her M16 and handed it forward. Packy gave it to the guard, along with his Mac-10, and drove into Black Mountain, shaking his head and muttering: “Some people.”
“Bears do eat honey,” intoned Dee from the passenger seat.
Packy gave her a pained look.
“I read about it,” continued Dee.
Packy was, once again, at a loss for words, and Lauren felt sorry for him.
This was going to be one tough romance.
Outside Sonita’s house, Dee and Lauren got out. “I’m just going to see a guy about some stuff,” said Packy, leaning out of the cab. “So, uh, take care of yourselves.”
Dee was already walking away, and while Lauren knew the message wasn’t really intended for her, she felt the need to reassure him. “Don’t worry about us. You do your thing and meet us back here. We’ll be waiting.”
Packy gave her a tight lipped smile. “That’s good. Uh, I’ll see you both later.”
As he drove away, Lauren wondered if leaving Dee’s presence was a relief or a torture for him. She made a note to maybe talk to him about this sometime. Following Dee to a small wooden house by the side of the road, she was halted at the screen door.
“Sonita would prefer it if we were alone,” said Dee.
Lauren decided she preferred it too. There was already a heavy enough atmosphere around Dee. Kicking her heels in a house with not one, but two depressives was more than enough to put her off.
“I’ll go take a walk,” said Lauren. “Have a great meeting.”
Not caring how Dee took that, Lauren wandered off, saying hi to folks out tending vegetable gardens in front of their houses. Their replies to the stranger walking through their neighborhood were guarded, but Lauren remained upbeat. Freed from responsibilities, she strolled the streets, curious about everything. The birds were singing and there was a scent of lilac in the air, along with the ever-present odor of wood smoke. The trees in the neighborhood had all been cut down, and people were sawing and stacking wood to feed the hundreds of little fires that were now the norm.
Lauren made her way into the small downtown area. The bistros and stores stood abandoned, windows still broken from the looting spree of the year before, but outside the police station, there was a group of people. They were facing the station door, as if waiting for someone to address them, and they carried placards, announcing things like Asheville Out! and No Taxes. There was no shouting, but even from across the street, Lauren could tell they were restive and unhappy. She gave them a wide berth and took the next available side street.
As soon as she did so, she encountered other groups. These, however, were heavily armed and organized into squads, each member sporting a green scarf tied to one arm. Most carried automatic weapons, with the odd machine gun or combat shotgun, and they patrolled in a military fashion, like soldiers in a hostile neighborhood. Lauren tried to look unobtrusive as one group marched by, and she was handed a crudely printed pamphlet by an unsmiling militiaman.
The leaflet read: Citizens must register their firearms at the nearest police station. Failure to do so will result in confiscation. Automatic weapons must be handed in immediately. All residences and all owned land exceeding one acre must be registered with the county office. Failure to do so will result in residences and land being impounded for state use. Please comply with the instructions of state representatives. Government of the Carolinas.
Lauren was stunned. Government of the Carolinas? She looked around, seeing a picku
p with a machine gun mounted on the bed, and realized it was imperative that she get back. Cutting through a parking lot, she walked briskly between some houses, hopping over a fence and almost jogging down the next street. She slowed cautiously upon spotting another squad hanging out on a street corner, sitting on a wall. They looked disheveled and slovenly, apparently happy to simply lord it over the neighborhood. Conscious of them staring at her, she avoided eye contact and strolled on by.
“Hey, I know you,” came a woman’s voice from behind her.
Lauren kept walking, her heart rate rising.
“Hey, you! You’re the one who shot Luke.”
Lauren glanced back. The woman making the accusation was short and gnarly, and Lauren didn’t recognize her, but she looked familiar, as did some of the other members of the squad. Maintaining her pace, Lauren watched as they got up, grabbing their weapons. Seeing all the faces close together, she had a sudden flashback.
They were the same people she’d confronted back at the clubhouse in Charlotte.
“You’re going to hang, bitch!”
Lauren took off. There was a crack from a gun and the windshield of a nearby car shattered. Weaving across the road and hurdling a fence as bullets zipped by, she dashed between some houses and veered left to put hard cover between her and the shooters. Knocking over vegetable trellises, she skidded out onto the next street. Looking one way, she spied another squad who, alerted to the shooting, were already pointing weapons in her direction. She was about to duck back when she spotted Packy’s Blazer down the other end of the street, perched on the top of a rail embankment, ready for a rolling start. Packy stood near it, talking to some guy outside an auto repair shop.
Lauren sprinted in his direction, yelling at the top of her lungs, “Packy, start the truck!”
If he couldn’t make out her words at that distance, he would surely see the people chasing and shooting at her. Bullets zinged off the sidewalk and she snaked between the parked cars, using every piece of cover.
It wasn’t enough. A bullet entered her thigh like a red-hot poker, seizing the muscle and collapsing her leg. She went down hard, her chin skidding on the pavement.
*
Packy was surprised by the outbreak of shots. He was dumbstruck when he saw Lauren racing up the street against a backdrop of gun flashes. He witnessed her fall, then started toward her when she tried to get up again. Armed figures darted out from behind a house and jumped on her, slamming her down to the ground and pushing a rifle barrel into the back of her head. The guy he’d been negotiating with vanished like he’d never been there, and Packy found himself standing alone as voices yelled at him to stay where he was.
One glance at Lauren told him what would happen if he did. He turned and bolted to his truck. Bullets kicked up dirt from the embankment as he opened the door, released the parking brake and pushed the vehicle over the edge. Multiple hits pocked the bodywork as the vehicle rolled and Packy jumped into the seat. With shaking fingers he tried to find the ignition with the key. The SUV progressed to the bottom of the slope and onto the road. Turning the ignition and flooring the clutch, he engaged gear as the windshield broke into pieces on his lap. Praying he had enough momentum, he released the clutch. The vehicle stuttered and slowed, the engine turning slowly. It didn’t look as if he had enough impulse for the engine to fire up before it stopped completely, and he got ready to bail out and run for his life.
The engine coughed, caught and started.
Packy hit the accelerator and spun the wheel as a machine gun stitched holes along the bodywork and into the backseat, exploding foam pieces into the cab. Driving recklessly through yards and crashing fences, Packy recovered from his shock and wondered what he should do next. His first thought was to get the hell out of Dodge. Then he remembered Dee.
Yanking the wheel and drifting around a corner, he gunned the V8 until he skidded to a halt outside Sonita’s home. Leaving the engine running, he dashed to the house and powered through the front door without knocking. Dee crouched in front of a seated Sonita, holding her hand as she sobbed.
“We have to go,” said Packy breathlessly.
“What are you doing here?” said Dee, annoyed by the interruption.
Jacob sat on a mat, playing with a plastic toy. Packy scooped him up and ran back toward the door. “They got Lauren. Let’s go.”
Dee stared at him.
“Please!” said Packy.
By the time Dee apologized to Sonita and excused herself, Packy was outside, holding the door open for her. Indignant, Dee took a surprised Jacob back. “What’s going on?” she said.
“No time,” said Packy as he pushed her inside and slammed the door. Skidding over to the driver’s side, he got in and burned rubber. “Get down as low as you can.”
The only way out of town that he knew was toward I-40. By the time he saw the barricade in the distance, he was pushing eighty and straining the old engine to its limits. He figured he might stop at the road block to retrieve his weapons, but when he saw the guards pointing guns in his direction, he decided to keep faith with the vehicle’s bullbar instead.
The guards only fired a few shots before diving out of the way as five thousand pounds of madly-driven vehicle smashed through the barrier and scattered the pieces all along the highway.
29
Back in Black Mountain, Fick approached the group, who appeared to be holding a woman down in the middle of the street. He’d been at the edge of town when he heard the shooting and had run all the way. Now he wondered what all the fuss had been about. Considering how many spent cartridges there were on the ground, there seemed to be a remarkable lack of casualties.
“What’s happening here?” he asked as he flicked the safety on his M4 and shifted it around his back.
A militiaman stepped up. “It appears we’ve caught someone wanted for murder.”
“Murder?”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
The female captive had fresh blood on her jeans leg, and Barbara knelt on her back, yelling, “Someone get a rope!”
“Is she armed?” asked Fick.
“No,” said the militiaman.
Fick walked over. “Barbara, get off her.”
“No way,” said Barbara adamantly. “I’m going to make sure she hangs.”
Fick glanced at all the cut trees. “And what are you going to hang her from?”
“I’ll find a way. She’ll pay for what she done to Luke.”
“Get off. Now.”
Barbara reluctantly did so and Fick pulled the captive’s body over. He had a suspicion about who it might be, and one look at her face confirmed it. “Well, well. If it isn’t Mrs. Nolan.”
Lauren was pale and in pain. Fick pulled out a knife and slit the jeans open to examine the wound. “Bullet passed right through. It could be worse. You’ll be okay.” He took out a field dressing and began bandaging the leg.
The first militiaman, a leader from a different squad, filled Fick in on what happened. “There was another guy with her, but he got away in a vehicle. According to a gentleman who was speaking with him prior to the incident, the two came from somewhere called Round Knob. It’s out east, I think.”
Fick mulled over the details. “Have you still got your truck?”
“Yeah, it’s around here someplace.”
“Get in it. Find Major Connors. Tell him we’ve got Rick Nolan’s wife. Emphasize that. And tell him to bring everyone he’s got.” He turned to the other militia members. “Get yourselves over to the east barricade and prepare for an assault. I’ll join you once I’ve finished here.”
A member of Barbara’s squad stepped up to protest. “We ain’t going until we see the bitch hang.”
Fick stood up slowly. “There’ll be no hanging today.”
“The hell there …”
The proclamation went unfinished as Fick punched him hard in the solar plexus. As the militiaman staggered back struggling to breathe, Fick turned to the other
s. “Any further objections?”
Barbara’s group stared sullenly at the special forces operator, but said nothing.
“Good. Then follow your orders.” He turned to a couple of civilian onlookers gawking from their gardens. “Do you people have a wheelbarrow?” he asked them.
They nodded.
“Bring one over. We’re taking this woman to the police station.”
As Lauren was helped into the makeshift transport, she looked up at Fick. “What do you want with me?”
“Nothing,” said Fick.
Lauren gasped as she was lowered down into the wheelbarrow, her wounded leg catching against the rim. “So why are you helping me?”
“You’re no good to us dead,” murmured Fick.
“Why not?”
Fick gave her a sly smile. “Because we need you as bait.”
*
Rick was about ready to kill someone. It turned out that John Yorkin had no real objection to a whiskey still, and no marijuana had been planted yet, nor was likely to be. No, his objection was to the Clement brothers themselves, whom he considered to be a pair of no-good, hippy dropouts. And his daughter had taken a liking to the younger brother.
“Dude, I never laid a finger on your daughter,” called out the younger Clement, who was hiding behind a partly-constructed composting toilet. The two brothers had discovered a half-ruined building in the woods that once belonged to the railroad. They were in the middle of creating a sustainable home out of it, leading to the rumor that they were building a still.
“I saw you with her,” yelled Yorkin, trying with his shotgun to get a clear shot on the younger Clement.
“We were talking! That’s all!”
“You’re crazy,” called out the elder Clement from behind a tree. He had his rifle and had been threatening to shoot Yorkin if he didn’t desist, but to no avail.
Rick was doing his best to defuse the situation but he was losing patience. He strode over to Yorkin. Farther back, Scott stood ready, his rifle aimed.
“Don’t you come no closer,” said Yorkin to Rick. “This ain’t your business.”