Sol Survivors | Book 2 | Nashville Nightmare

by Benton, Ken

  Mick drove slowly on the dirt alongside the train tracks, constantly looking about in all directions. “Yeah,” he said. “Yes, yes. This has got to be the place.” He turned through a wall opening into an industrial complex that brought to mind photos of Dresden after the bombing.

  Perhaps not that bad. But the desolate complex they’d entered took on unwelcome attributes at night. Some of the buildings had been burned or were otherwise damaged, and the ones left intact projected a ghostly image. These were mainly warehouses with small office buildings attached. Back in DC Joel sometimes attended police-confiscated car auctions on a similar type of property.

  Mick drove through it without incident, and they reached a street. He turned left and continued his reaffirming utterings, which didn’t sound all that reaffirming to Joel. Then he turned into another big parking lot.

  This one featured a single large building instead of multiple smaller ones, and a different type of ruin ornamenting the landscape: buses. Most were former city buses, and were heavily vandalized. Some lay on their side.

  “This may have been a bus depot,” Joel commented just before seeing something move inside one of them. “I don’t think we’re alone here.”

  “Want to put a few rounds through the bus windows?” Mick asked.

  “How close are we?”

  “Close.”

  “Maybe on the way out, then. There’s not much left to shoot on most of these.”

  A little farther across the parking lot the familiar scene of abandoned cars replaced the buses. Joel didn’t detect any human movement in this section. And then those stopped, too. Everything stopped. They came to a line of trees beyond which there appeared to be an abyss.

  “That’s the river,” Mick said.

  He then picked a spot to drive up and over a landscaping median into the lot of the neighboring property. This one again consisted of more small warehouses, but they were located far across the parking lot, up by the street. Nothing was back here, no cars and no movements.

  “You’re doing a good job, Mick.”

  “Thanks. He’s down on the bank below the next property.”

  Joel looked ahead. They came to the next median, where Mick stopped. The final property was a large metal building, probably a factory or foundry which may or may not be abandoned. There were no cars and no movements around it, but the building stretched all the way to the edge of the parking lot, almost to the riverbank. There wasn’t much room to continue driving over there.

  Mick pointed. “Maybe we can put the car behind those tree branches while we get Sammy.”

  The memory of the U-Haul truck flashed in Joel’s mind, which the trading gang tried to hide in some bushes near the Dunn property after stalking him and Sammy from Virginia.

  Regardless, he responded with, “Good idea.”

  Joel got out and helped guide as Mick backed the vehicle up from the parking lot onto part of the riverbank behind low-hanging tree branches. Joel banged on the back window twice when he thought it was far enough. After walking around the SUV and adjusting a few of the branches, he nodded to himself. It may not help much if they were being watched, but the vehicle was out of direct sight from most of the surrounding parking lots. Approaching a visibly-obstructed vehicle was a dangerous business. Hopefully, that fact would discourage any individuals or small parties currently observing them.

  Joel then went to work retrieving the tools for the task at hand. He shouldered the AR, took the newly-acquired shotgun in one hand and the emergency backpack in the other. The backpack contained a coil of rope, some Velcro straps, a truck tie-down, several large bandages, two flashlights, a foldable camping spade, the night vision goggles, a smaller first aid kit, water, iodine, and ammunition for four different weapons, including Mick’s newly-acquired handgun which was, thankfully, a 9mm, the same caliber as Joel’s.

  They locked the truck. Mick began leading the way. They remained quiet, not speaking a word to each other until Mick reached a spot on the riverbank which caused him to stop. The brush there appeared recently disturbed.

  “Is this where you came up?” Joel asked.

  “Maybe.” Mick looked at the bridge above them.

  Joel decided to risk raising his voice.

  “Sammy!”

  The two of them hunched over, longing for a simple end to an arduous endeavor. A word from Sammy’s sweet voice would shatter all the nightmarish scenarios one was capable of inventing in a situation like this. Yes, they had to run the same gauntlet to get back out. But the team would be together again, and they would handle it. Heck, maybe they could wait for dawn to make the return trip. If Sammy stuck it out here a few hours, they could perhaps all stick it out four or five hours more. Whatever the plan ended up being, they would execute it as a team and Joel liked their prospects … if Sammy would only answer.

  These were the most precious seconds. Each one that ticked by now lent power to the irrational fears which invented the nightmarish scenarios.

  Mick and Joel moved closer to the bridge, where Mick found another disturbed spot he may have come up by. They both called out to Sammy in louder voices. Every moment with no reply brought a great deal of growing stress.

  * * *

  Sammy cleared his throat. He then waited, in near agony. Finn would play the first note, wouldn’t he? The audience had gone silent and the stares from Mort and Arturo became intense. Every second that ticked by with no music brought a great deal of growing stress.

  And then a lifesaving sound pounced from the piano keys. It wasn’t anywhere near a proper blues note, but Sammy didn’t have the luxury of waiting for Finn to take piano lessons or acquire a tuned instrument. Then, amazingly, before Sammy could even react, something resembling a decent starting note followed it. To Sammy it was nothing less than the opening chord to A Hard Days’ Night. He was glad he waited.

  Sammy sang.

  When I was in knee pants, my momma done told me,

  My momma done told me, son,

  The piano followed Sammy’s notes in a reasonable fashion. Sporadic applause sprang in one or two places. Unfortunately, it died as Sammy recited the next few lines. He could see Mort cross his arms. But Sammy didn’t let it affect him. He was actually doing a good job in his own opinion. So he raised his voice to belt out the chorus lines.

  A woman's a two-face, a worrisome thing

  who'll leave ya to sing the blues in the night

  That did the trick. The theater exploded in cheers, whistles, and applause.

  Sammy started walking across the stage, compensating for his limp the best he could by using hand motions in the next stanza. The audience loved him, and went wild when the chorus lines were repeated.

  That’s when Sammy broke out the harmonica. He waited, though, for the piano to plunk a few notes close to being bluesy before playing it, which was nearly a fatal mistake. When the judges saw him produce an object from his pocket they picked up their weapons—but by the time they trained them on Sammy the instrument was in his mouth emitting notes.

  It wasn’t the greatest rhapsody ever performed by two musicians, but under the circumstances it worked as well as could be hoped. Finn occasionally landed on resolving notes that sort of had a blues thing going for them. Sammy kept it simple, progressing through 3-blow, 3-draw, 4-blow, and 4-draw then bending the 4-draw as he held it there, repeat two times and resolve by playing it in reverse. Finn did what he could to try to provide accompaniment, and didn’t completely ruin it. Some of the spectators began trying to clap along, but they didn’t clap in unison.

  Sammy ended the harmonica solo with a sustained bend on the 2 draw. It brought loud cheers.

  The next part was tricky, because Sammy didn’t know the words to the last stanza. The safe thing to do was simply repeat the first one and end the damn thing. But being caught up in the moment, with the audience temporarily on his side, he decided to take a chance and make up his own lyrics. This is where his affinity for hip hop music might come in
handy.

  When I was in Nashville, the gangsters they told me,

  The gangsters they told me, rabbit

  The Hall gang will sweet talk, they’ll invite you for dinner,

  But they got a worrisome habit

  They’ll tell you sing, cause that is their thing,

  And if you don’t like it they’ll teach you to sing

  the blues in the night

  Sammy ended it with one last quick harmonica riff, bending the 2-draw as Finn banged the final piano note.

  Now, the reaction to Sammy’s own lyrics was mixed. He definitely heard laughter and cheering along with some enthusiastic shouting, but it died off quickly after the song ended, instead of blowing up as one would hope. Worse, a low murmur spread through the theater.

  Finn stood, smiled at Sammy, flashed him a crossed fingers sign, and escorted him to the front of the stage. He didn’t need to push Sammy this time.

  The crowd became silent. Mort studied Sammy with a scrutinizing look for a long uncomfortable moment. Finally, he uncrossed his arms and spoke.

  “That was … fantastic!”

  “Yeah it was,” Arturo immediately echoed.

  Now the crowd erupted. They must have loved the performance, but knew to wait to see if their appreciation would be sanctioned by Mort. He was the one you really needed to please.

  “Thank you,” Sammy said bowing slightly. And then he did something unexpected. Something unbelievable. Something he thought physically impossible a few minutes ago.

  He smiled. First at the judges, then at the audience. It wasn’t faked. Somehow Sammy found an inner set of circumstances within the whole horrible predicament he’d been thrust into to derive a moment of genuine joy from.

  It didn’t last. The outer circumstances were too forlorn to evade Sammy’s focus for more than a few seconds. But it was interesting that a fleeting moment of joy could even sprout, with Sammy’s pending demise so likely.

  It made Sammy think. What if humans could live their entire lives focused on happy inner circumstances, and blow off all apprehensions of impending doom? After all, everyone alive on Planet Earth is headed for certain death. Looking around at the currently-jubilant audience, perhaps Sammy was beholding a group of just such humans. These people couldn’t possibly have any concerns beyond their next meal.

  The judges waited for the cheering to trail off before continuing their feedback.

  “You didn’t get all the lyrics right,” Mort said, “and had to improvise your own, but it worked. The musical score was good. I’m happy to see the two of you working that out together.”

  “Yes, yes,” Arturo said nodding.

  Mort went on. “Now, about the harmonica playing. I wouldn’t normally approve of that, because some would try to use it as a Band-Aid to cover their lousy singing, and we care more about your voice in this contest. But you didn’t overdo it, well, not terribly, anyway, and it did compliment the number nicely, especially since you sang the strongest points of the performance. Just don’t get any ideas about using it as a crutch in your final number. I wouldn’t like to see that. In fact, come down and set it on the table in front of me, will you?”

  Sammy looked down at the table, then at the harmonica in his hand, then at the floor, and frowned.

  “Hop down, rabbit,” Mort said. “Bring it here and surrender it, please.”

  Sammy grimaced, bent down to sit on the stage, turned to support himself with his hands, and let himself down on his good leg.

  “His leg,” Arturo said as if to remind Mort. “His bad leg.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Mort shrugged at Sammy. “The way you moved in that performance made me forget about your … injury. We’re all happy to see it manageable for you. Now set the harmonica on my table, please.”

  Sammy cautiously approached. Mort and Arturo both crossed their arms. Both their weapons lay on the table right in front of them. Sammy was all but certain he could grab one of them after setting the harmonica next to Mort’s gun, sweep the other to the floor in the same motion, bring Mort’s weapon to a firing position, and began spraying the auditorium with bullets—starting with the judges. But it was like they were daring him to do it, so he held off.

  Good thing. When Sammy hobbled backwards after giving up the instrument, he saw two guys standing two aisles above the first section who’d been holding rifles on him. When he turned around, Daniel was center stage with his pistol on Sammy’s back as well. He wondered if any past contestants made the mistake of succumbing to a similarly offered temptation.

  Mort burst out laughing.

  Arturo said, “You can take the stairs back up, rabbit. Good show. It’s time to see what the cheater has for us in the second round.”

  By the time Sammy limped to the side of the stage and up the stairs, with much help from the railing, Enzo and Daniel had begun their number.

  It was the last song Sammy ever expected to hear that guy sing: Crazy by Patsy Cline.

  Not only did he sing it, he sounded okay. Worse, he seemed to get better as the song progressed—and Sammy was pretty sure Enzo knew all the lyrics, too. Daniel’s guitar playing was a non-factor. That instrument was pathetic. All he did was strum it now and again. Unfortunately, it had the effect of making Enzo sound better.

  Enzo succeeded in singing the last line in a low, deep voice. Until then the crowd had been mostly quiet. But as soon as Enzo stopped they went absolutely ape-shit. It was the response Sammy hoped for but didn’t receive at the end of his own song.

  The judges shortly confirmed Sammy’s fears.

  “Outstanding,” Mort said after they came forward. “Wow. And a wonderful song choice, considering where we are.”

  “Yo, best performance of the night!” Arturo commented.

  Mort nodded in agreement. “Yes, it appears we have a real competition all of a sudden. Let’s see who can pull it out. You have fifteen minutes this time to prepare for the final round. I suggest you use them wisely.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You sure this is the right spot?” Joel asked.

  Mick finished climbing to the top of the bank, the night goggles now swinging from his neck, before answering.

  “This is it,” Mick said brushing himself off. “That’s where he was, dammit. I’m 90% sure.”

  “Why 90%?” Joel asked. “And not 60% sure?”

  Mick looked above them. “Because of the concave in the riverbank where he was holed up, and because of the location of the bridge. I remember it being right here, right where it is now. Besides, we’ve been calling for him and he could hear us even if we are fifty yards off. Which we aren’t.”

  “Maybe we can’t hear him answer,” Joel said. “Or maybe he’s sleeping, and you have the wrong spot. Or maybe he crawled to a new spot for some reason.”

  “If he moved, he is likely closer to the bridge.” Mick began walking in that direction. “The cover is better.”

  Joel wanted to correct Mick, not because his logic was flawed but because the whole stupid plan he and Sammy came up with was clearly flawed, since it failed. This was maddening. Why did everyone always have to screw everything up, and then drag Joel in to fix it after the situation was broken beyond repair?

  But this was Sammy they were talking about, and Joel didn’t have any better suggestions at the moment—only criticism for not handling things exactly like he would have, even if he didn’t know what that would be. So he followed Mick.

  They found another recently-used trail down the side of the bank a mere ten yards further. Mick insisted on studying it through the night goggles longer than Joel liked.

  “Why aren’t you going down?” Joel asked.

  Mick pointed. “It goes back to the same concave. There’s nothing to the left that I can see.”

  “So maybe he climbed out this way,” Joel said.

  “Yep.” Mick kicked at the ground. “But the trail goes cold here.”

  They both began calling Sammy again, in their loudest
voices yet. Mick removed the goggles and their eyes met.

  That’s when Joel regretted his bitter thoughts towards Mick. He could plainly see the two of them were here for the same reason; their love of the same person. And the pain in Mick’s eyes at arriving and not finding him where he was supposed to be matched the pain Joel now felt in the depths of his very being.

  “You looking for your lost rabbit?” a voice behind Mick suddenly said.

  Mick spun around. Joel stepped sideways, closer to the edge of the bank. They both had their rifles aimed at the source of the voice in two seconds. But even that was much too slow. How in the world did someone sneak up on them like that? Joel must have let his guard down in the moment of anguish.

  The source of the voice was a man standing a mere fifteen yards from them. If he were a hostile, Mick and Joel might already be dead.

  He didn’t appear hostile.

  “I’m alone,” the man said raising his hands.

  “Who are you?” Joel responded. “What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Kendal. I roam as I feel led. I was wondering if you two are looking for a lost rabbit.”

  “We’re looking for a friend, not a rabbit. Just keep your hands where we can see them, please.”

  Kendal mistakenly took that as an invitation to lower his hands and come closer.

  “I’m not armed. Never touched a gun in my life and don’t care to. This friend of yours is of medium build with curly black hair? A young man, like you?” He looked at Mick.

  “Yes!” they both replied.

  “That’s him,” Mick continued. “You know where he is?”

  “Yes,” Kendal said. “Sadly, I do. They called him Rabbit. Took him to the hall.”

  “Is he all right?” Joel asked.

  Kendal stepped even closer and looked upward. He was ragged, middle-aged, had brown hair that might only be brown from being dirty, and a full, unkempt beard. He seemed to be studying the night sky, so Joel followed his eyes. The western stars had begun vanishing, probably from cloud cover moving in. Joel wouldn’t mind at all if it became darker.