They passed through another large intersection and there were signs there had once been a checkpoint there too. There had also been several significant firefights. Abandoned cars were bullet-riddled with shattered windshields and shredded interiors. The shod hooves of their mounts kicked spent shell casings and they rang across the dirty asphalt like dropped coins.
There were convenience stores on both sides of the road. Conor expected that the tanks feeding their gas pumps had long ago been siphoned dry by desperate locals. As with most stores he'd seen on his travels, all of the windows were shattered by vandals and the contents of the store spilled into the parking lot like the entrails of roadkill ravaged by buzzards. Food was gone, beer was gone, and cigarettes were gone. All that remained were the tacky impulse items sold by the cash register and the overpriced car supplies. Amidst the piles of debris, trash, and wreckage, displays of transmission fluid, oil, and windshield deicer sat undisturbed.
At a place called Elk Garden they left the four-lane highway, turning onto Route 80 beside a tiny brick school with a bell tower. There were several houses in this community and no areas of dense forest where they could conceal themselves for the night. Near an old Methodist church, Conor stopped in the road to study a crude statue of a bicyclist welded from scrap metal.
"It's a hostel," Barb said, pointing to a sign located a short distance from the road.
Conor looked up and saw what Barb was pointing to. There was a tiny cabin behind the church and the sign indicated it had been a bike hostel since 1976. The road they were now traveling was part of a national bike trail that ran from coast to coast.
"I saw this place when I was riding to Damascus. It's tempting to stay there in a proper bed, but I'd hate to wake up with a gun in my face," Conor said.
"Same here. Let's keep moving."
In less than a mile they found a pocket of suitable woods above the road. They had to ride a little further to find a gate they could get through. They passed a spring-fed watering trough set up for cattle but saw none anywhere. The horses drank it just the same, finding cow water as refreshing as horse water. When they'd drank their fill, Conor and Barb rode on, reaching the woods as color faded from the world.
They looked about as they unsaddled their horses, feeling as if this was as safe a place as they'd find. They hobbled their mounts and allowed them to graze while the two of them ate MREs by the low light of an inflatable solar lantern. When they were done they buried their trash and shoved their sleeping bags into waterproof bivvy bags so they wouldn't absorb moisture from the ground.
"What's the plan for tomorrow?" Barb asked.
"Looks like it's only a couple of miles from here. Because of the way the land lays, I'm thinking we need to follow this road up to the top of the Clinch Mountain range. Then we can follow the ridge west and descend into the valley without being exposed."
"What then?"
"We set up a camp, likely close to the ridge, but concealed from the valley below. That way no one hears the horses or spots us if we have to use a headlamp. We'll set up an observation post low enough that we can use optics to watch the valley. Then we wait and see what we can see."
Barb was silent for a moment, processing what her father said. Conor could almost hear the gears turning. He waited expectantly to see what her next question would be. He could feel it formulating.
"Once we've confirmed the identity of this guy Browning is looking for, what do we do?" She knew good and well what Browning had told them to do, but that didn't mean her dad was going to follow through with it.
"I have a couple of more days before I have to check back in with him. I intend to make that call and report what we've found. I guess I won't be forced to make a decision until after that phone call."
"This whole thing is bullshit. I'm not comfortable with his demands—I know you're not either—but I'm also not comfortable with all of us dying for a bunch of strangers. This thing Browning is asking of us is evil. It's everything we're fighting against. At the same time, I'd be willing to do evil to preserve my friends and family. I'm not proud of saying that but it's true. It's who I am."
"There's no need to worry about it yet, daughter. First things first. We need to figure out who these people are and if they're as bad as Browning says they are. Don't forget The Bond. Don't forget the people who kidnapped you. There are bad people out there doing bad things. If Jim Powell's people are one of those groups, I'll have no problem doing what Browning asked. First, we need more information."
"I'm just trying to think ahead."
"Planning is a good thing," said Conor. "But you can't chew your biscuit before it gets to your mouth."
Barb laughed. "Do you have any analogies that don't involve biscuits or is that your 'go to' for every story you tell?"
Conor considered this. "You know, I'm pretty sure I've got a biscuit for every situation."
"Good night, Dad."
"Good night to you, Barb."
22
Elk Garden, Virginia
Barb and Conor woke with the sun. The sky was clear but the humidity was high, making them sweat before they'd even moved from their sleeping bags. They packed up without much discussion and saddled their horses. Conor was a morning person. He was ready to start telling stories, swearing, and cracking jokes as soon as his feet hit the ground. He understood his perkiness was a challenge to Barb who usually woke in a more sullen mood, so he gave her the space she needed.
They rode from the field where they'd spent the night and rejoined the narrow paved road. The map called the area Rockdell and vast pastures opened up to each side of them. Conor's horse kicked a shell casing, catching his attention. He looked down and saw more of them collected along the shoulder of the road, having rolled to the edge of the pitched surface like discarded cigarette butts. The shells had tarnished from the weather until they nearly blended in with the dirty asphalt. Conor would never have spotted them if his horse hadn't brought them to his attention.
"Looks like a firefight. A lot of rounds fired here."
"Over there." Barb pointed to something off the road.
Conor couldn't see it from his position due to the high shoulder of the road. He nudged his horse forward a few steps and saw an old one-story farmhouse sitting a short distance off the road, the paint peeling from the wooden boards and the tin roof thick with mopped-on coatings. "Looks like an old tenant farmer's house."
Barb pointed to a row of divots in the siding, splinters of fresher wood showing through boards grimy with road dirt. "It's shot all to hell. You want to take a look?"
Conor directed his horse up the driveway, two tracks of compacted dirt that looked more like a farm entrance than the path to someone's home. Barb fell in behind him. Shortly they were standing in the yard of the ancient farmhouse, deciphering what had taken place there from the story written in the wrecked house, the expanse of garbage, and the scattered bones.
"Someone must have lived here up until the collapse," Conor said. "That's all newer trash."
"Looks like he took to throwing it in the yard once he couldn't go to the dump anymore," Barb said. Disintegrating garbage bags were stacked on the porch, aluminum beer cans separated from them. The yard was carpeted with trash too, the high, matted grass thick with it.
Conor pointed out the bones. "Looks like one body. Likely shot from the road. They left him laying and nature took its course."
"You sure that was a man?"
"Positive," Conor said, nodding toward the porch.
Barb followed his gaze and saw the human skull sitting on the peeling porch rail. There was a Red Man Chewing Tobacco cap sitting atop it. A pair of reading glasses hung askew since there were no ears or nose to make them sit properly. Though any soft tissue was gone, bits of leathery flesh and tendon clung to it in spots. Someone had thought it would be amusing to place the skull up there on the porch rail like a jack-o-lantern.
"You think the people we're looking for are responsible for this?" sh
e asked.
"I don't know who killed him but I'd say it was kids who decorated him up like this. I've seen shit like this in other countries before. Kids who get so accustomed to death that there's no longer a taboo associated with a corpse."
"You want to go inside?"
Conor shook his head. "I don't think so. Nothing in there but mold and sadness."
They got back on the road and in another mile Conor reined his horse to a stop near an intersection. He tipped his head toward a pile of culled logs left over from a timber operation.
"When I went to Damascus to help that Hardwick family, I was coming back over this mountain ahead of us. I was happy because I'd just pedaled up this long-ass mountain and I could make some good time on the downhill. The road has some big swoopy curves in it but you can go pretty fast. I didn't expect to run into all the little rocks that had tumbled from the exposed cliffs and I hit a rock about the size of a biscuit with my front tire."
Barb rolled her eyes. "There you go with the bleeding biscuits again."
"Eh, it's an apt description. First thing that came to mind. Anyway, I went down hard. I had some road rash and I'd thoroughly bunged up me front wheel. It was bent out of round and I was screwed. An electric bike is heavy as hell if you can't roll the damn thing. I'd probably pushed it about three miles when I got to this intersection. I was hating life and sat down on one of those logs over there to indulge in some self-pity and ponder me fate. I was trying to decide if I was going to have to leave the bike behind and try to come back for it later."
Barb smiled. "You were pouting?"
"Damn right I was. Anyway, as I'm sitting there pouting, this kid raises up out of those logs. He was camouflaged with an old piece of dirty tarp and I hadn't seen him. He's got a rifle leveled on me and he's looking pretty nervous. He had his finger on the trigger and I was afraid that rifle was going to go off any second. He'd got a right and proper jump on me."
"You kill him?"
Conor shook his head. "I charmed the lad. I told him I was a poor Irish traveler biking across the country and I'd hit a spell of bad luck on the mountain there. That story didn't take much convincing. I was scratched up from head to toe and my bike was all boogered up."
"I remember when you got home from that trip. You did look a little rough."
"The kid got to see them all fresh and raw. He told me that his dad was gone on a work trip and he was waiting on him because this was the way he always came home from those trips. It was heartbreaking really, but this was in those early days of the disaster and people were still holding out hope that those stranded on the road might make it home."
"Most of them didn't," Barb remarked.
"Exactly. There have been several times that I've wondered about the kid and his family. Anyway, while he was talking about his dad, he ends up telling me that his dad liked to ride bikes too and I took that as an opening. I told him that was a sign of character and integrity, that a man who rides a bike is a cut above the rest."
"He buy that bullshit?"
"It's not bullshit." Conor looked offended. "It's the God's honest truth and I believe it to the core of this thumping gizzard that I call a heart. Off the top of my head I just kind of ask this kid if his dad might have another wheel laying around somewhere. Turns out the dad has a pile of scrap bikes at his house, so the kid radios his mom and tells her that he needs a tire. Of course, she gets a little wound up about the whole thing, this kid of hers out here talking to some strange man on the road."
"You charm her too?"
Conor chuckled. "Hell no. There was no charming that one. She was suspicious of me and wanted me out of there. She comes riding up in this ATV with a parts bike in the back. I use my tool kit to take the wheel off. It's already got an inflated tire on it and is good to go. Meanwhile, the kid's mother has an M4 pointed at me the whole time and it's obvious she knows what the hell she's doing. The safety was off and her finger was on the trigger. She was ready to blast me if I even looked at her wrong."
"Obviously you got your bike fixed and got the hell out of there."
"Obviously, since I merrily pedaled me way home to you. Before I left though I gave that kid a scrap of paper that identified me as The Mad Mick and had my address on it."
Barb looked incredulous. "You did what?"
"I know it sounds crazy but I kind of bonded with that kid. Him sitting out here keeping watch for a father that would probably never come home nearly broke my heart. I wanted him to know that I'd help him and his mother out if they needed it. I owed him that much for helping me. In times like this, when people trust no one, the help of strangers is not to be discounted. It's a powerful thing, trusting in a time when no one trusts anyone."
"Maybe you'll come across someone that knows the fate of him and his mother," Barb said. "Not that anyone is going to want to socialize with us after we threaten to slaughter the lot of them."
"I was thinking about that—about what might have happened to him, not about the slaughter. Don't get ahead of yourself, Barb. Remember what I told you."
"And you remember what I told you," she replied. "If it ever comes down to you or strangers, I'll take you every time."
Conor nudged his horse and they got moving again. Barb clucked her tongue, tapped the stirrups against the horse, and caught up with him. Conor understood how headstrong his daughter was. Not only that but how unerringly loyal she was to him. Their bond was powerful and each of them would walk through fire for the other. They'd both demonstrated that numerous times.
"Barb, we'll survive if we lose the compound,” he said, his voice softer. “We'll be fine. We take this one minute at a time. Don't let a man like Browning, a man we loathe and despise, push you into doing his bidding. A person has to live with their actions. They have to be able to respect the person they see in the mirror each day."
When Barb didn't reply, Conor shot her a glance, hoping he might be able to read her expression. She was paying him no attention, her eyes glued to something in the distance.
"What is it? A reflection?" There was concern in Conor's voice. "Is someone glassing us?"
"It looked like sunlight off metal." She dialed up the magnification on her scope and shouldered her rifle.
Conor fished a pair of binoculars from a saddle bag and raised them to his eye. "It looks like a camp."
"An abandoned camp," Barb said. "Everything is standing open. We need to take a look."
"Hold up a minute." Conor studied a satellite photo on his GPS. "It looks like we can check out the camp without being seen but we can't go any further. This is one end of the valley we're looking for and the satellite map shows houses just beyond that camp. If we get spotted it might put the whole valley on alert. We don't want that."
"Stealth mode then." Barb clucked her tongue and steered her horse in that direction.
Conor fell in behind her and they approached the camp from the back, doing their best to stay concealed. Getting this close to the valley made Conor nervous. He could never know when people might be out hunting, foraging, or just moving around their community. The sight of a couple of armed strangers in their neighborhood might be enough to send his target underground, only making their job harder.
Even before they reached the camp they began to unravel the story of what had taken place there. There had been a lot of gunfire. There were several vehicles, flattened tents, and abandoned campers. There were large trailers with the doors hanging open, stripped of all the contents.
Barb took note of the open gas caps on all the vehicles. "They didn't just empty the contents, they took all the fuel too."
Conor stopped his horse near a patch of dirt that the grass had not yet covered. The soil had settled, indicating that the hole had been filled some time ago. "I bet there are bodies under here. A mass grave."
Nearly all of the windows had been shot out of the campers. Holes pockmarked the aluminum surfaces of the RV. The pickup trucks around them looked the same. There was trash and bits o
f plastic embedded in the soil but everything of use had been stripped from the site.
"What do you make of it, Dad?"
Conor shook his head. "Going off location alone, I'd say that the folks in that valley didn't take well to having new neighbors. There's a sticker on one of those vehicles showing it's from the town of Abingdon. That's one county over. These people were outsiders. They might have shown up here and tried to stake a claim."
"And the current residents didn't take well to being crowded?"
"That would be my guess," Conor said.
"Tells us a little about the people we're dealing with. If someone pushes against them, they're not afraid of pushing back."
Even without knowing the details of what had taken place here, Conor understood that Barb was right. If the man he was looking for was responsible for what had taken place here, he wasn't afraid to stack bodies when the situation required it.
They got back on Route 80, the road that led over the mountain and through Hayter's Gap. The blacktop undulated and twisted through old farming country. There were a few houses but they saw no people, though they did see livestock and signs of gardening. At this time of the year, without the need for a heating fire, it was harder to detect which were the occupied homes and which were vacant. It was understood that occupants could be hiding within the shadowy recesses of any dark dwelling they passed, weapons tracking the exposed riders.
Soon they were beyond the last of the homes and began climbing the inhospitable slope of Clinch Mountain. The road was steep and the switchbacks sharp. There was no guardrail and the drop off the shoulder was nearly vertical. Even getting close enough to it to peer over the edge spooked the horses.
"There's where I busted my ass," Conor said as they rode through one sweeping turn.
Barb frowned, picturing her dad going down here and sliding on the abrasive blacktop. "Ouch."
Ultraviolent: Book Six in The Mad Mick Series Page 20