More bullets whip-cracked the sound barrier in the barn, and I realized we were taking fire from further into the building. By now, the three of us had reached the first of three tractors attached to their enclosed trailers, all parked close together so that barely three feet of clearance ran alongside like two narrow alleys. Wil, Ethan and I hunkered down and covered the approaches, trading rounds with highwaymen trying to work their way in our direction. We could have tried forming up and rushing the other end of the barn, using the trucks and trailers as cover, but that was a sure path to getting some of us wounded in the ensuing melee, if not worse. Plus, we had a plan.
Instead, we drew fire and went prone on the filthy concrete floor as we took careful, aimed shots as the increasing desperate highwaymen tried to get to their rigs. I know I hit at least two of the highwaymen in the lower body, and then I again as I gave both of them insurance shots to the cranium.
As I fired, I kept count of my shots as best I could. At twenty-five, I shouted, “Reloading,” as I popped the magazine release and dropped the nearly spent magazine to the floor. Continuing the motion with my left hand, I withdrew a fresh aluminum magazine from my chest rig and slotted it into the rifle’s well, then snapped it home.
“Up,” I announced, and as I swept my barrel further right, I saw the movement on the other side of the Chevy. Someone had slipped over in the confusion and used the length of the rusty pickup to shield their escape attempt. As I made out a pair of legs clad in the same distinctive camo pattern as the watcher outside, I emptied half my new magazine into the space underneath the truck and walked my rounds across the floorboard and halfway up the passenger side door. I don’t know how many rounds struck home as sparks flew, but I nodded in satisfaction as a body hit the ground just behind the wheel front well.
“Reloading,” Ethan cried out, and his shots ceased for a few seconds as he repeated the same reloading maneuver I’d just completed a few seconds before. As I scanned for more targets, my battered ears picked up a change in the sound of battle towards the front of the barn. Not really an increase in the rate of fire, but more like a steady stream of shots answered by a sporadic flurry of gunfire. Pat had joined the fight.
“Watch for leakers,” Wil warned, making his own reload and following his own warning as he shot a fleeing highwayman trying to flank his position on the left. In our plans, based on the reconnaissance provided by Wil and Ethan, Pat had made assignments for our firing lanes. Wil had left, I had right, and Ethan had to focus on the fatal funnel of the two narrow alleys down the middle of the three parked trucks. Ethan’s job seemed almost impossible, but from the floor firing in a prone position, Ethan had an obstructed line of sight that was still better than trying to dodge back and forth between the two paths.
As long as we stayed low, I knew we had a chance of pulling this off. When Pat had hatched this plan, relying heavily on Wil’s own experiences, we knew the attention would initially focus on the three of us. We made the most of our distraction, and honestly, I was surprised by the high volume of fire still directed our way. Then, with Pat’s unexpected attack from what was effectively their rear, the highwaymen were now panicking and making mistakes. The only concern…
The thought triggered action, and I rolled over on my back just in time to catch movement from up top. The two eighteen-wheeler tractors parked on each side had wind deflectors mounted on the cab roof, but the one in the middle, an aging Kenworth, did not. Apparently, someone had been working on the roof of one of the trailers when our attack kicked off. Now that someone was clamoring across the roof of the Kenworth cab on his knees, pistol drawn and looking for a target. Across the dozens of yards separating us, our eyes met in a split second frozen in time.
The angle was weird, with me oriented upside down to the highwayman while laying on my back, but I already had my AR-15 shouldered. He was a stocky man, well into middle age and what little hair remaining on his head carrying a heavy frosting of gray. His expression showed a whole panoply of emotions as anger, sadness, and resignation flashed across his blunt features as we frantically raised our weapons, racing death to the finish line.
He fired first, and I barely registered the flash as concrete chips and lead sliced into my left cheek as I got a shot into his torso, throwing off his aim even more, and he struggled to bring his pistol to bear even as I stroked the trigger a second and third time. The 68 grain hollowpoints did their job, opening small craters in the dead man’s chest as he fell, boneless, and doing a header off the cab and onto the concrete below.
I held that pose for a second, then cradled my rifle, gloved hand sensing the heat coming off the barrel shroud as I rolled back over to scan for more targets. I held that pose for the next five minutes as I waited, tense and nearly shivering from the letdown, until I heard Pat’s voice boom over the drone of the still-running generator.
“Clear this side. Let’s check the cabs.”
Another ten minutes of white knuckled tension interspaced with a few seconds of terror as we systematically swept the cabs and sleepers on the three trucks, followed by scouring the two pickups parked to the side and Pat finally signaled ‘all clear’. We were done with the fight. Now it was time to pick through the pieces, and I steeled myself for the necessity of questioning the prisoners.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“None?”
“Nope. Not a single survivor. Somebody was a little too good with the old ‘double tap’,” Wil teased as we finished checking the fallen highwaymen. Like the attack on Wade’s farmstead, we processed the dead in the dying light of the day, piling up the pocket detritus for each one as we went. About half still had wallets, and Pat had Ethan take a quick photograph of each before moving on to the next.
Pat had us use the forklifts to gather the bodies, then we lined them up in two rows inside the barn. Sixteen in all, which was quite a few more than the eight or nine reported by my two friends. So much for timely intelligence, I wanted to complain but didn’t. Pat confirmed the engine of the second pickup, a late ‘90s Ford F-250, was still warm when he checked the hood. We all figured that was the source of the additional forces, meant to escort the newly repainted rigs once night fell.
“So how do we figure out where they’re laired up?” I asked, resisting the urge to kick the nearest corpse. His wallet said his name was Wallace Pendergast, and listed his last known address in Pasadena, which was suspiciously close to Baytown. Several of the others also had addresses either in Baytown or close by, which tied back to the previous intelligence I’d gathered from our good buddy Kyle. We had a hostile group of unknown numbers situated somewhere close to us, but we didn’t have their location, the count, or the backing to carry forward.
Were they militia, survivalist, preppers, or a cult of some kind? In the end, it didn’t matter, but my own personal opinion placed them in the category of wolves. That is, a group who might espouse a survivalist creed, but in reality, they, or at least their leadership, planned to prey on other members of that community if times ever went beyond the pale. They might bide their time in the event of a simple hurricane, but this was a different matter. The handwriting was on the wall that this series of disasters might actually bring down our society, and now they were willing to flout the law and their very humanity to ensure they came out on top.
For anyone who ever spent time on any of the preparedness website forums, lurking in the posts like I was wont to do, you might run across the wolf mentality expressed as, “you go ahead and store up all that food, because I’ve got guns and I can figure out where you live”. Most weren’t that obvious, of course, but working gun shows with Mike opened my eyes to the attitude. Heck, I’d seen tee-shirts that basically repeated that message.
“We leave everything here and make an anonymous call to the department in a few hours,” Pat replied to my earlier, almost forgotten question. “Even with everything else they’ve got on their plate, the Department is still better situated to work this scene.”
&n
bsp; “Dang it,” I growled, but not in earnest. “I hate using up a burner phone for this.”
“Then we see what Sheriff Bastrop can turn up,” Ethan finished the thought we were all thinking. Yes, they would have a shot at hacking into the password-protected laptop, while even our best computer geek, Mike, would almost certainly fail. Just not in his skillset. The laptop and some paper notebooks offered us the best avenues of approach, since the insurance cards on both pickups linked back to addresses in Baytown.
“What about the cash?” Pat asked, opening up another area of possible discussion, but Ethan spoke up first.
“Uh, I know at Landshire’s, we ended up splitting the cash,” he started, then stopped, almost bashfully. “Thanks for that, by the way. But here, I was wondering if I could somehow donate my share to families of the drivers who were killed? Wil got the list of names from the Sheriff, and I knew three of them. Worked with two of those guys. I know they have families.”
Ethan cleared his throat, then confessed he used to work with the same two guys as Wil did, before he switched to driving a tow truck. He wanted to do the same as his brother-in-law.
“I’ve got no problem with doing that,” Pat said. “I might need to twist Nikki’s arm, but I think it’s the right thing to do.” We shared a quiet snicker at the thought, since Nikki was well known now in our group as being tight-fisted when it came to holding onto a dollar. “We don’t know where they stole it from, so returning the cash really isn’t an option.”
After Pat spoke, I noticed the other three looking at me.
“What? Just because I’m the shyster, everybody thinks I want my percentage.” I blustered, but by now, all of them knew when I was yanking their chains. “Actually, I was thinking we need to take the money, then slip some of it to the Sheriff later. If you guys are still convinced we can trust him, that is.”
“Bribing the sheriff? Now that sounds like something a lawyer might do,” Pat observed with uncharacteristic bite, and all four of us laughed.
It might sound macabre, or even disrespectful to laugh while standing amongst the dead, but frankly, they weren’t ours to mourn. Plus, I had a hard time feeling sympathetic to people who tried to kill me. Twice. Maybe that was just me hardening my heart, or maybe it was that Hardin blood proving out in the end, but none of the others seemed bothered by it, either.
“No, dumbass,” I retorted, shaking my head before explaining. “Some counties have a Victims Compensation Fund, or something like that. They disburse money to the victims of violent crime, or their families. I am just suggesting we make a very directed contribution. Have the sheriff split the money six ways.”
The money in question amounted to nearly $24,000. Pat had sniffed it out, hidden in a metal ammunition box stashed in the back of the blue pickup. The irony was, we would never had found it if someone hadn’t thought to hide it in with the ammunition.
The notes were mostly tens and twenties, with a rubber banded bundle of hundreds mixed in as well. All used, and not in any sequential order that Pat’s cursory examination could reveal. It looked like somebody hit a bank at some point, but none of us saw any sign of bank wrappers or a cash bag. Pat tumbled to the stash as we were busy stripping all the ammunition, magazines, and weapons from the dead. Only Pat would have that happen, I thought to myself. That guy could fall in a cesspit and come out holding a diamond.
“What about Nancy?” Ethan asked, and it was a legitimate point.
“We won’t tell her,” I said, and immediately realized my error. She was Dorothy’s sister, and both Ethan and Wil thought he world of Wade’s wife. Before the scowls could devolve, I held up my hands.
“Don’t take that the wrong way, guys,” I cautioned. “What I meant was, she gets her share, and we don’t talk about our donations. All of us picked up a few dollars from the late sheriff’s estate, right? Well, Nancy didn’t. She also is feeling like a mooch now that her work with the Co-Op is petering out. I’ll cut her $4,000 share out of my own pocket this time, okay?”
“But we aren’t going to lie to her, right?”
“No, I’m not going to lie to her,” I agreed. “Listen, I guess it’s no secret that I have feelings for Nancy. The last thing I want to do is belittle her effort, or suggest she isn’t contributing her share. She’s a proud woman, after all.”
“Feelings, huh? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Ethan popped off, and that smart aleck remark diffused the situation just as much as my explanation did.
“What about the rest of this stuff?” Wil asked, and I wanted to smack my forehead. “That diesel tank has nearly two hundred gallons still in it, and that’s not counting the drum. Plus, that generator didn’t fall off any of these trucks, and it’s an Onan 5k. Really more than they needed just to run what they had here. Looks to be in really good shape, too.”
“You must have been the scrounger in your old outfit, Wil,” I replied good naturedly, and the former Marine flashed a bit of a blush at my words. Bingo, I thought.
“What about their comms equipment?” I asked, remembering my own suppositions from before.
“Yeah, you were right,” Pat confirmed, giving me a hint of a scowl. “They had one of the Department radios. Don’t know who supplied it, but they also had the key to go with it. They could listen in on anything they deputies were doing. Good call there.”
“After they laid low when the deputy came through their ambush spot earlier, it gave me the idea,” I patiently explained. “Even with a lookout, moving that truck and hiding their presence would have taken too long otherwise. I think we need to let Sheriff Bastrop unravel that mystery.”
“Agreed. And if we want that diesel tank and all these other supplies, I think we need to get to work. Unlike these folks, I don’t want to wait until after dark to hit the road.”
“We can use that gooseneck trailer out back, hook it up to the blue Ford and haul most everything that way.” Ethan supplied, and that broke up our planning session as we went to work. With Nikki and Nancy still providing coverage, Pat took charge of boxing up the weapons and assorted items while I helped Wil stage the forklifts and rig the fuel tank for lifting. Fortunately, we found plenty of chain to do the work, and I noticed Wil arranged things so the extra chain went with us as well.
While Ethan and Wil loaded the gooseneck, I took a few minutes to look over the discarded pallets stacked on the floor of the old barn. From the shipping lists, we knew all three trucks were carrying food as parts of their load, but two of them were also were hauling household supplies, paper products and other assorted cargo. The other one was all food, and the highwaymen seemed to have been content to leave it alone and simply take the whole shipment as is. Clearly, they were just after the food. Either they had a large compound or this militia group was looking to stockpile for the day when food became the new currency.
We had decided early on not to disturb any of the shipments other than confirming the contents. We might be vigilantes in the eyes of the law, by not following proper procedure, but we weren’t bandits. Or highwaymen. We recovered plenty of spoils from our fallen enemies to replace the ammunition we used, with quite a bit of surplus. Whoever equipped these guys had access to high quality arms. We even found six sets of Level IV body armor stowed in bed of the orange Chevy pickup, and it was the same brand the Sheriff’s Department used. Also, no body from the earlier ambush at the bridge, so they must have disposed of it on their way here.
Clearly, our fight in the barn might have turned out differently if those highwaymen had decided to keep their armor on while they worked. That was a lesson I meant to take to heart. We were also taking that extra body armor as well, as I knew several people who would benefit from the gift. And one who most certainly would not be getting body armor or anything else from me other than a kick in the ass. Charles Brewer. We would be having a long talk as soon as this wagon train reached the house.
“I know that look, Bryan,” Pat cautioned me. “You heard the sheriff.
You can’t just kill him out of hand.”
“We took him in, Pat. For Mary’s sake. Heck, I liked him. Hard worker, and he did what we asked of him. No gunhand, but not everybody’s cut out for this.” I hissed out a sigh, shaking my head. “Now we find out he’s a threat to our security. We’ve tried to keep some things close to the vest, but how much about our preparations has he managed to unravel?”
“We’ll figure something out,” Pat said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “How much are you going to tell Mary? About why they have to leave?”
I noticed Pat didn’t even question that Charles would soon be leaving our group. Charles had proven to be a hard worker, but even before this latest revelation, I could tell he was holding back from fully committing to our long- term plans. He knew just about as much as we did about the first meteorite strike, and our supposition about the effects of that impact. Yet he still seemed to think we were over-reacting, even after his hometown was flooded so badly the National Guard still kept the cordon in place after all this time. He wanted to go back and rebuild, which I guess was an admirable trait if it wasn’t for the fact there wasn’t anything to go back to, at least based on the images shown on the internet. Those were yanked down by the censors, I mean, the service providers, almost as quickly as they went up, but anybody with a computer and half a brain could see the coastal plains were nearly wiped flat by the passage of the storms. Idiot. That was the only polite term I could think of to describe him before my conversation with Sheriff Bastrop. Now I had another. Traitor.
“What am I going to tell Mary? The truth,” I replied after some thought. “She married a dumbass, and if she sticks with him, he’s likely to get her killed.”
Tertiary Effects Series | Book 3 | Bite of Frost Page 23