Sol Survivors | Book 2 | Nashville Nightmare

by Benton, Ken

  Joel’s position was five yards away from Mick. The two of them trained their barrels back and forth in search of additional targets. Another flash of lightning revealed no attackers, only chaos. Those still in the courtyard ran in different directions, but none towards Joel and Mick. That was good.

  At least some who were still armed ran for the front entrance of the theater. That was bad.

  * * *

  Sounds at night travel farther than sounds during the day. Odin detected a V8 motor on the back road a half-mile behind the station, near the power plant. He figured it for the SUV that left the garage during his last couple hours of attempted sleep.

  He’d woken up a lot last day. There’d been a lot of commotion on the diurnal shift. Some gunshots were even fired here on the property, and the two vehicles kept in the garage both started up and left. Odin wasn’t much more than a night attendant, but he understood that his employment was with organized crime, and that one of the upper bosses, Lanny, was spending the night in the station waiting for the return of at least one of those vehicles. What trouble Lanny was waiting to hear had been resolved Odin had no clue.

  It was pretty cool. Odin always liked mafia movies. After Helios, he thought he was fortunate to find a job at all, especially considering he’d turned nocturnal. And organized crime honestly looked like the only kind of organized anything that would be happening for a while, at least for hapless civilians like himself.

  Odin had no aspirations of moving up. He was divorced, broke, and content to be a gas station attendant. Bringing his bosses bits of information they requested of him, such as the arrival of any diesel trucks to the station, he viewed as a fun extra assignment in working for this crew. Even if the owners of those trucks were forced into surrendering them for less than fair value.

  More lightning appeared in the sky over the city, this time as an impressive jagged bolt, bringing fearsome thunder several seconds after. Some of the bolts were striking all the way to the ground there. If this kept up, Odin might find himself inside for a spell watching the pumps through the window. It was a slow night, like most.

  The light was on in the garage, which meant Lanny and the others weren’t getting much sleep, either. It came on about an hour ago. Odin thought he heard a walkie-talkie squawk with Amos’s voice just before that. Poor Amos had the night watch up on I-40 tonight.

  Additional vehicle sounds from the east, also V8 engines, began to come into earshot. That probably meant the first one Odin heard was not the shop SUV Lanny was so concerned about. After another crash of thunder, they became more numerous, almost as if the thunder deposited part of itself to linger and grow. There was only one possible source that could be responsible for a convoy of vehicles arriving in the middle of the nightshift.

  Military.

  Odin decided he better go in and alert the others. But before he took two steps he became illuminated, first by a lightning flash and then by bright headlights suddenly shining on him from the street, as if the lightning also deposited a lingering part of itself. The light soon divided itself into multiple sets of headlights and spotlights mounted on roll bars.

  Military.

  Odin turned to face them. In a matter of seconds they were on him—three Humvees and two Jeeps. By the time the soldiers’ feet met the ground more army vehicles were rolling into the station from the other direction. And he could hear still more on the roads behind. Whatever was happening was much bigger than the usual harassment.

  “Are you in charge?” One of the soldiers who came forward asked.

  “I’m the night attendant,” Odin replied. “The boss is sleeping. I’m the only nocturnal presently on site.”

  The soldier then addressed someone holding a radio. “Call the general.”

  But that one pointed the radio behind Odin saying, “He’s here.”

  Odin turned around to see a large Jeep pull up. Out of the passenger seat stepped a bulky but trim man who moved with an air of authority.

  “I’m General Deatherage,” the man said to Odin. “How many of you are here tonight, operating this gas station?”

  A general. Wow. Yep, something big.

  “Son, I’m talking to you.”

  “Um … four, I think, General. Or five. Besides me. Just one other nocturnal.”

  “Where’s the other nocturnal?”

  “He’s … in the field.”

  “The field? What field?”

  “General,” one of the soldiers spoke interrupting, “the east road patrol discovered a body on the ground at the electrical substation. And it appears to be vandalized, like the others.”

  The general turned back to Odin. “Is that your man in the field? I hope not.”

  “I …” Odin shook his head. “I better get the boss.”

  “Yes, son. You better.”

  Odin led the general into the office, where Lanny already sat behind the desk with a freshly lit cigarette anticipating the arrival. He didn’t look quite as poised as normal. A couple of the others stood by him, also acting nervous.

  “So you’re the boss?” General Deatherage asked Lanny.

  Lanny shook his head. “The owner of this station is not presently here.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “He left on an errand, and has yet to return.”

  “So when he’s gone, you’re the boss?”

  “I don’t even work here,” Lanny replied.

  The general appeared to become irritated.

  “Listen here, sir. My name is General Deatherage. I didn’t get to be a general without learning to recognize authority. The way these others defer to you and are afraid to speak, the way you sit there, the fact your night attendant brought me to you, all means you are in charge whether you agree with their nomination or not. So tell me who you are, then.”

  Lanny flicked his ash into a tray. “I am a network representative. I am visiting from the … franchise headquarters.”

  “The black eagle network,” the general said pointing at the symbol on the window.

  Lanny shrugged. “That’s not its official name.”

  “Whatever. I am ‘officially’ informing you that we are stationing ourselves here as a temporary forward base of operations. You will be compensated for any fuel we require at fair market value. Don’t even think of giving me any crap about it being presold on purple vouchers. I don’t care. What I do care about is why you have a dead man laying beneath the wires of a sabotaged electrical station a half-mile behind you.”

  “I know nothing about that, General. Whoever that may be is not associated with our franchise, or to my knowledge with this gas station, either.”

  “Well tell me this then, Mr. Smoker. Why have we discovered three other vandalized electrical substations on our journey, all of them within close proximity to one of your black eagle gas stations?”

  “I have no idea, General. We are in the gasoline trade, not the electric power business.”

  A new soldier came in asking for orders. The general told him to establish a secure forward position on the interstate.

  That caused Lanny to glance at the walkie-talkie sitting on the desk. The general caught it.

  “Do you need to call someone, sir? Your ‘man in the field,’ perhaps?”

  Odin expected to receive a scowl from Lanny, but none came. Lanny simply picked up the walkie-talkie.

  “Amos, it’s Lanny. You still there?”

  “Roger,” came back Amos’s voice.

  “You better get cleaned up and come in.”

  After a moment Amos replied, “Come again?”

  Lanny took a puff before answering. “Clean everything up and come back to the station.”

  “Okay,” Amos’s voice said. “I was hoping you’d say that. Looks like a pretty big storm brewing.”

  General Deatherage waited for Lanny to set the walkie-talkie down before speaking again.

  “Your man in the field is certainly right about that.” The general gazed out the window.
“Hell, he’s a damn prophet.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chili watched the manner in which the cheater came forward to hear Mort’s assessment. He moved with more confidence this time, nodding and smiling at Daniel along the way, clearly pleased with himself. But there was still some fear in his eyes. He couldn’t completely sell the confidence act.

  “I don’t quite know what to say to that,” Mort began. “The audience had fun, which undeniably helps your chances. It was an energetic number, and you sort of pulled it off.”

  “Yeah it was,” Arturo said clapping. “And you did.”

  “But,” Mort continued holding up a finger, “it was what we call a ‘safe’ song choice. Now, given the stakes, no one can blame you for selecting a safe song. It definitely puts pressure on your opponent to deliver.” Mort looked over at Finn and the rabbit, who were beginning to slowly walk out on stage.

  “However,” Mort said, “if the rabbit goes with a risky song, it could spell trouble for you, like what you did to him in the second round. You gambled there and won big time. Crazy is why you are currently the favorite, in my opinion, not Welcome to the Jungle, though both performances were good. Of course, the thing about gambling with a risky song choice is it could also backfire. We’ll have to see what the rabbit does here without the aid of his harmonica. I think he’s figured out how to deliver a performance. If he goes with a relatively safe song, as you just did, I believe he will have a hard time beating you at this juncture even if the audience receives it favorably. And you didn’t even have to cheat.”

  “Good job cheater,” Arturo said. “Good job!”

  Daniel had to push the cheater on the shoulder to escort him off stage. The cheater clasped both hands over his head and pumped them in a victory motion as he walked, gaining some cheers from the audience.

  But Chili knew that was a mistake. For one thing, it resembled a gang sign, and not the Hall Gang’s sign. More significantly, it displayed pride in front of Mort. Mort was no sympathizer of weaklings begging for their life, but he didn’t care for showboating, either. The smart thing to do in front of him was show the proper respect while still retaining a degree of self-respect. Exactly where the optimal balance lay Chili was still trying to learn himself.

  Finn and the rabbit stepped forward. The frayed ends of the guitar strap around Finn’s neck tickled his chin, causing him to scratch.

  “Are you ready?” Mort asked them.

  The rabbit nodded. “I think so.”

  “What will you be singing for us?”

  “A Beatles song,” the rabbit replied.

  “Which one?”

  This is where the rabbit made a critical mistake by hesitating and glancing at Finn before answering.

  “Hey Jude.”

  Mort tilted his head and Arturo shook his.

  “Are you certain?” Mort asked. “There is still time to switch. I’d hate to see you give your opponent an easy victory.”

  “I’m sure,” the rabbit said. “All I ask is that I be allowed to finish the full song.”

  Mort looked at Arturo and chuckled, resulting in Arturo also chuckling.

  “Well, we’re not going to wait all night for a super drawn-out version, you understand. Especially if I feel you are stalling. But I understand the song has certain stages, and I will give you a chance to perform them. Just don’t try our patience, please.”

  “Agreed,” the rabbit replied.

  At that moment a thunderous boom sounded from outside, like a cannon firing. Several gunshots quickly followed it, and then a second boom and a crashing sound as if part of a building were crumbling.

  Many of the gang members inside reacted. Exclamations of “whoa,” “what the…” and various expletives conveying shock blossomed throughout the theater. Even Arturo half stood and turned in the direction of the sudden commotion.

  Not Mort. He remained frozen in place.

  “All right,” he said to Finn and the rabbit. “Proceed, please.”

  That had the effect of settling the audience down even as intermittent gunshots continued to fire in the courtyard outside.

  The rabbit was also visibly jarred by the tumult. It looked to Chili that he’d planned on singing first and having the guitar follow him, but Finn ended up strumming to begin the number.

  The rabbit started his song. It was weak and out of key. And an unwelcome inharmonious transition from the previous high-energy performance. Unwelcome from a musical perspective, that is. They were going to get prime meat for supper.

  Mort’s body language indicated he didn’t care for it, either. He even turned around to face those in the second-section seats, something he rarely did during a performance, and made eye contact with Chili and Jimbo.

  He then waved the two of them forward. Chili and Jimbo glanced at each other before climbing over and down two rows to kneel before Mort.

  “Jimbo,” he said in a low tone. “Make sure the front door is secure. Chili, slip out the back and go around to see what the hell is happening out there, will you? Come back and let me know.”

  They both nodded. Jimbo scurried up one of the aisles with his sawed-off shotgun. Chili went around the stage to the stairs with what used to be the rabbit’s sawed-off shotgun. He pushed his way past the cheater and a glaringly curious Daniel before running in a hunched-over position across the stage and behind the curtain so as not to distract too much from the act in progress. The rabbit’s singing still hadn’t improved.

  Chili found the lead pipe near the back door, opened the deadbolt, pushed the door open a ways, peeked outside, and bent down to place the pipe in the door crack so he could get back in.

  It was a mistake. The door suddenly flung from his grip. Before he could react, he was the recipient of a kick in the face which caused him to drop his weapon. The same foot then kicked his gun back inside the open doorway when he tried to reach for it.

  Chili looked up to see two strangers pointing rifles at him. His hands instinctively went up.

  “Leave this neighborhood, now!” one of them said.

  Chili rubbed his throbbing cheek, nodded, and stuttered to reply, “Okay. I’m gone.” He got up and stumbled away as fast as he could.

  Those two weren’t city gangsters. They were outsiders, from the country in all probability, like the rabbit. As Chili gathered himself upright, a lightning bolt struck with awesome force somewhere nearby, causing him to involuntarily hunch over again.

  Chili decided to do what the outsiders told him.

  * * *

  It wasn’t going well. Sammy needed to greatly improve, and fast. That was easier said than done under the present circumstances. He couldn’t even blame Finn this time. Sammy knew what to expect from him.

  The explosions and gunfire suddenly sounding like World War 3 outside didn’t help. Sammy’s initial reaction was one of hope. Some kind of gang war erupting right now would be a godsend, and potentially offer Sammy the chance he needed to escape. Or better yet the army showing up, like the cavalry in one of Joel’s beloved westerns. But if either of those desperate fantasies proved true, it would still take more time than Sammy likely had left for them to penetrate the heavily-defended auditorium. Mort showed no discernable concern over the ruckus yet. If only this wasn’t the last song.

  Chili running backstage at Mort’s directive was another distraction throwing him off. The most logical reason he was sent there was to be Sammy’s executioner, using Sammy’s own gun no less. Sammy hoped it would be a merciful, quick kill shot. He knew Chili would need to creep up close to him in order to accomplish that with the blunderbuss.

  Sammy didn’t want his final effort in life—at anything—to be so weak. The unyielding facts remained that fighting his way out would be futile, escape near impossible, and hopes of a miraculous rescue unrealistic. All he had left was this song he was so badly botching.

  That and his brain. He needed it now.

  Sammy’s improvising during his previous number was well rec
eived. He also couldn’t remember all the lyrics to this current song, but figured nobody else was likely to, either—so he planned on repeating the first stanza when needed in the middle. The notion suddenly flashed on him that these lyrics were about making a sad song better. Maybe he could play on that and pretend the entire performance was intentional. But he needed to start improving now.

  Sammy decided to change the lyrics a tad and repeated the first stanza, but switched the words sad and bad with each other so the second line was sung as:

  Take a bad song, and make it better

  …emphasizing the word ‘bad’ and intentionally improving the quality of his voice, including raising his volume. It worked—somewhat, anyway. It sounded better to Sammy, Finn gave him an encouraging nod, Arturo tilted his head, and a couple spectators out there actually clapped.

  For the next stanza Sammy tried something risky. He had watched Daniel’s piano playing during Enzo’s number and noticed that much of it was plunking the same keys over and over with three fingers on each hand on what looked to be the same note keys in different spots. Sammy thought he could do that, and also that it would go okay with the tune. So he sat down at the piano, placed his fingers on those same hopefully-working keys and did it, raising his voice to full volume.

  You have found her, now go and get her

  The piano did more or less what he hoped it would. It didn’t sound great but didn’t ruin the number, either. The audience gave a mixed reaction, but at least one new person cheered. Sammy remembered what Mort said about using an instrument as a crutch, so, after completing the stanza in what he believed were much improved vocals, he stood up.

  He also remembered what Mort said about not over-extending the song length. So Sammy took center stage and simply repeated the altered version of the first stanza as the last stanza before launching into the repetitive end stage of the song. By now Mort had crossed his arms again watching Sammy, but not in the typical resistance fashion. More like someone studying something interesting. So Sammy gave the last line of the final stanza his best effort at an escalating raspy pitch.