Hope's Return

by Jay J. Falconer

  They were seven minutes early for this meet with their reclusive source. A meet long overdue, and, as it turned out, mandatory before Phase Two of their mission would be granted the go-ahead.

  Everything else was set. All Craven and his band of teeth needed was a time and place, both of which Fletcher would know in the next few minutes. At least, that was the plan, assuming the source had the information they’d been seeking.

  Fletcher watched Dice move ahead, working the approach to the train station with his squad mates TJ Pepper, Willie Boone, and Chapa Longbow. All three had been hand-picked by Dice in an attempt to create a small, but trusted band of loyalists—men who hated Frost and welcomed the leadership change.

  Sketch had held back with Fletcher, standing watch on the area behind them. Sketch was usually tasked to cover their six, a posting that, if not protected, would leave the team vulnerable to an overrun from behind. Sketch had always performed well on this duty assignment, so there was no reason for Fletcher to think this time would be any different.

  Dice and his team entered the train station with rifles high, preparing to sweep the inside for threats. The source they were meeting was dangerous, but he wasn’t the immediate risk. It was the rogue bands of Scabs that Fletcher knew worked this area. Scabs that Craven didn’t control.

  Dice had brought the Scab repellent spray, but even so, it was a limited supply and not something Fletcher wanted to use unless there was no other choice.

  Plus, he didn’t entirely trust the one-eyed pirate who ran The Factory. Craven could have engineered the spray to become inert over time. It would have been the tactical thing to do—get them hooked on its usefulness and then demand more in trade.

  Plus, there was the possibility of a run-in with another faction of society’s desperate—humans—regular humans. People who had banded together in an attempt to overpower and loot the weapons, ammo, and supplies Fletcher and his men carried.

  Occasionally the looters would hit an area, not realizing who they were attacking and what the punishment would be for their actions. Frost had no patience for any of them and Fletcher didn’t intend to, either.

  The latter of the two possibilities hadn’t been much of a problem in a while, mainly because of the lure of the Trading Post. However, now that Heston and his exchange compound were down, it was conceivable the dynamics would change. Desperation has a tendency to lead even the most passive of folk to take ambitious measures.

  An effective leader never assumes the threats are contained, nor does he assume they will be the same as the last mission. Not when what’s left of the world is hungry and frantic about their survival.

  Dice appeared in the doorway of the station, raising his hand to give the go-ahead signal for Fletcher to close ranks and join him.

  “Hold here,” Fletcher told Sketch.

  “Orders, sir?”

  “Cover this sector and report any activity.”

  “Permission to engage?”

  “Granted, but verify your targets,” Fletcher told Sketch. “Our guy could approach from any direction and we need him in one piece.”

  “Copy that, boss.”

  “He’s usually in a vehicle so he can transport the fuel, but can’t rule out he’ll arrive on foot. He’s done that before, though I don’t understand why.”

  Sketch nodded.

  Fletcher left him behind and made quick work of the hundred yards that spanned the distance to the building. He went inside and walked to where Dice stood with the rest of his team.

  “I’d like to set up overwatch, if that’s acceptable with you?” Dice asked, glancing at the biggest member of his team, Willie Boone.

  The muscular man had to run at least three hundred pounds. He was about twice the size of the gray-haired TJ Pepper, who was standing next to him, and about half his age. Longbow was somewhere in the middle—not small, not big—but definitely capable.

  Fletcher nodded, craning his neck to study the ceiling. “Assuming the roof will hold.”

  Dice must have understood the remark and the reason for it, because he didn’t hesitate with his response. “I’ll task Pepper instead. Don’t want to risk it.”

  “Good choice,” Fletcher said, turning his attention to Longbow.

  The well-built Navajo’s eyes sat deep in his head and were always on alert, as if he were in perpetual hunt mode. Some of the men called the proficient tracker by the nickname of “Archer,” a moniker that fit his last name and not his legendary skillset.

  “So I hear you’re damn good with a knife?” Fletcher asked.

  “I get by,” Longbow replied, his focus never wavering from Fletcher. The man grabbed the eagle’s claw that hung on a homemade necklace in front of his chest, rubbing it as if he were asking it for insight, or possibly good luck.

  “Show him, Archer,” Boone said in an energized tone, his voice deep and full of gravel. Boone turned his eyes to Fletcher. “You gotta see this, boss. Never seen anything like it.”

  Longbow didn’t react, his eyes still locked on Fletcher’s and his fingers rubbing the trinket.

  Fletcher wasn’t sure if the Navajo was waiting for approval to act, or if he simply chose to ignore the demonstration request.

  “Later, men. We’ve got work to do,” Dice said, releasing the tension that had built among the group.

  With that, Pepper stepped away and headed outside to take his position on the roof.

  Dice pointed at two of the train station walls. “Let’s get those windows covered.”

  Longbow and Boone split off, each taking his post at a different pane of glass.

  Fletcher and Dice gathered in a huddle, turning their backs to the men.

  “Once we have the location, it’ll be time to dispose of the others,” Fletcher said.

  “Already in the works, boss. I’m going to create a new hunting party and use that as the cover.”

  “Do you think they’ll buy it?”

  “Yeah, as long as you and I are in agreement as to the need for a second group.”

  “Easy enough. I’ll just say that with our recent losses, we need to develop redundancy for all facets of the compound.”

  “That’ll work,” Dice said.

  “I’ve got movement over here,” Boone reported from the window on the left.

  Fletcher and Dice turned, scampering to his position.

  Boone pointed. “Eight o’clock. Just beyond that rise. See the dust?”

  Fletcher did, watching small puffs billow into the sky beyond the rise.

  “It’s moving too fast to be a bunch of Scabs, unless they went bionic or something,” Boone said.

  “Chances are, it’s him,” Dice added. “Unless Carr and her group somehow figured out where we are.”

  Boone brought his eyes down and checked the chamber of his AR-10, then released the magazine with the lever on the side. He spun the ammo holder in his hand and tapped it twice on floor to align the rounds. He peered at Fletcher as he slammed it back into the lower receiver, looking sure of himself. “Either way, I’m gonna burn ‘em all.”

  Fletcher put a hand on the giant’s shoulder. “One step at a time, Boone. I don’t want any mistakes. Not today. We need this guy in one piece.”

  Longbow joined the conversation from his position at the other window. “What if it’s Edison’s group? We can’t let them find us here.”

  Fletcher gave Longbow a stern look, needing the conversation to stop. And the paranoia. “If that happens, let me handle it. Nobody fires until I give the order. Is that clear?”

  “You got it, boss,” Longbow said.

  “Yes, sir,” Boone said, his eyes shooting to the ceiling after a pounding of footsteps raced across the roof.

  “Sounds like Pepper is in position,” Dice said, also following the footsteps with his eyes.

  “All right, everyone stay sharp,” Fletcher said, walking to the door of the train station. Dice joined him, taking position on the other side of the entrance.

  Fl
etcher kept his body positioned behind the edge of the doorframe as he pulled his semi-automatic sidearm from the holster, then racked the slide of the 1911. He didn’t want to fire the .45, but he would if he had to.

  “Time to nut up or shut up,” Dice said, his pistol drawn as well.

  CHAPTER 24

  “There he is,” Dice said, seeing a dual-axle truck racing up the road, its beefy tires taking the dips and turns at high speed. “And I thought I was a lead foot.”

  The camo-covered truck slowed to a crawl as it began a wide circular approach. Fifty yards later, the driver rolled down the side window and held out a white flag with a red stripe on it.

  “That’s him,” Dice said.

  Fletcher turned to the men behind him, stationed at the windows. “Keep an eye on our flanks, gentlemen.”

  “Roger that,” Boone said from his firing position.

  Longbow held firm as well, his rifle high and tight against his shoulder.

  The truck swung around from left to right as it drove over the train tracks and brought the passenger side door into view, coming to a stop only twenty yards in front of the station’s entrance. There were smears of red on the side—either paint or blood, Dice assumed.

  When the driver opened his door on the far side and hopped out, Dice’s assumption about his identity was confirmed after the man walked to the hood and turned toward them, passing the front bumper. It was their leather-clad source, complete with head-to-toe garb that included a full mask and a long coat that resembled a cape.

  “I see he’s still carrying those damn swords,” Fletcher whispered in an irreverent tone.

  Dice nodded, wondering if the Nomad ever left the weapons behind. Or his mask, for that matter, never attending their meets without it.

  The man looked medieval, a strange sight to be sure, his extra-thick leather costume providing armor-like protection from teeth and claws.

  However, a high-velocity bullet would have no issues penetrating the animal hide, nor would a honed Ka-bar knife. Or one of the man’s own swords, if Dice had to guess.

  Fletcher put his pistol back into its holster and walked out the door.

  Dice did the same, taking position next to his commander’s left shoulder.

  “Call off your dogs,” the Nomad said in a firm voice, sounding the parts of both superhero and vigilante. “Just me today. Nothing different.”

  Fletcher craned his neck and peered up to Pepper, giving him a quick hand wave.

  Pepper backed away, he and the front sight of his sniper rifle disappearing from view on the roof.

  The Nomad pointed at the closest window alongside the train station. “And the others—”

  Fletcher put two fingers into his mouth and let out a sharp whistle. “Stand down, men.”

  The Nomad leaned to the side for a moment, his eyes locked onto the window he’d just pointed at.

  “Are we good?” Fletcher asked.

  The Nomad nodded as he brought his focus back, the hood on his head jostling in concert with the movement.

  “What do you have for us?” Fletcher asked.

  The Nomad held for a moment, his upper body leaning toward the middle of the doorway, indicating he was looking beyond Fletcher and into the station. “The fuel?”

  Fletcher shook his head. “Not so fast, my friend. Intel first. Then I’ll have the diesel brought up.”

  “Not acceptable.”

  “It is today.”

  The Nomad paused, his hands resting on the handles of his twin swords, both curved and hanging on his sides in their sheaths. “Why the change?”

  “After last time, when you came empty-handed, we need to be more cautious.”

  “A circuit board and smut magazines are not nothing.”

  “But you didn’t bring the coordinates.”

  “A much harder get.”

  “Hence our wariness. The tougher the intel, the more vigilant we must become. How do we know you didn’t show up empty-handed again?”

  The Nomad took his right hand off the sword and brought it to the middle of his chest. He tapped his fingers on the leather suit, directly over his heart. “It’s right here.”

  “Then let’s have it,” Fletcher said, holding out his palm.

  “The fuel.”

  “We could always just take what we want,” Dice said. “We outnumber you five to one.”

  “Wouldn’t end well for you.”

  “Actually, it’s the other way around.”

  The Nomad shook his head. “Many have tried and all have failed.”

  “Easy now, boys; this doesn’t have to escalate,” Fletcher said. “We have the fuel, as agreed. Just need to verify the intel first.”

  The Nomad took a step back with both hands on his weapons. “The fuel or we won’t meet again.”

  “He’s bluffing, boss,” Dice said. “He needs the diesel worse than us.”

  “Nomad doesn’t bluff,” the Nomad said.

  Dice looked at Fletcher. “You believe the nerve of this guy? After all this time, he doesn’t trust us. I take that as a personal insult, don’t you?”

  “Nor does he wait,” the Nomad added. “You have until the count of ten.”

  With that, the Nomad began a countdown, starting with the number ten and reciting the next lowest digit in one-second increments.

  The three of them stood firm as the sequence continued, the air around Dice seemingly getting thicker and harder to breathe with each successive numeral.

  When the Nomad reached the number four, he pulled his swords from their sheaths, as if he were starring in a slow-motion scene from a Hollywood movie.

  After the tips of the blades found air, the Nomad brought them together in a crisscross pattern, his front leg bent low, with the rest of his body in ninja fighting position. “Shoot me if you must, but the intel dies with me.”

  “We’ll just take it after we waste you,” Dice said, fighting to keep his laughter under control. The Nomad had no idea what Boone was ready and willing to do. Or Longbow, for that matter. The Nomad wouldn’t make it ten feet.

  “It’s on notepaper and wrapped around a pouch of blood. If you shoot, it’ll be soaked and unreadable.”

  Dice found the Nomad’s response a little too convenient. He’d never pulled this stunt before, wrapping paper around a sack of blood. For this tactic to be true, he would’ve had to have known their plans regarding the fuel ahead of time, which wasn’t possible, since only he and Fletcher were in the loop. “I still say he’s bluffing, boss,”

  The Nomad continued the countdown. “Three . . . Two . . . One . . .”

  Fletcher brought his hands up in a flash of movement. “Okay, you win. Stop the countdown.”

  “Countdown on hold,” the Nomad announced in a deep, purposeful tone, almost as if he were narrating a scene from a cheesy science fiction book about a woman terrorist being put to death in front of a live, betting audience.

  “Everyone just take a deep breath. It’s all good,” Fletcher said, pausing before he put his fingers into his mouth again. He let out a sharp whistle. “Pepper—”

  Pepper’s head appeared from above, hanging over the roofline of the train station.

  “Call them in,” Fletcher said to the man.

  “Sure thing, boss.” Pepper rose to his feet and aimed his rifle into the air. He fired one shot, then held for a few beats before firing two more in rapid succession. When the echo of the last two rounds faded, he triggered a fourth shot, then brought the rifle down.

  “They’re on their way,” Fletcher told Nomad.

  “One truck only and no more men,” the Nomad said, bringing the tip of one of his swords around to face the center of his chest, directly at the spot he’d tapped earlier. “Or this ends now.”

  “I give you my word. The fuel is on the way, exactly as you asked.”

  Silence hung in the air for a minute, until Dice couldn’t hold back a question weighing on his tongue. He pointed at the red smears on the side of t
he Nomad’s truck. “Looks like you’ve seen some action.”

  “A fair amount.”

  “Recently.”

  “Very.”

  Just then, an explanation slammed into his mind. “That’s one of Edison’s, isn’t it? From the Trading Post massacre.”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you know those supplies were ours.”

  “That’s not how I see it.”

  Dice looked at Fletcher, wondering why the man wasn’t engaging on this topic. The Nomad stole what was supposed to be theirs. “Boss?”

  “Let it be, Dice.”

  “But—”

  “That’s an order. What happened at the Trading Post wasn’t anyone’s fault. Let’s just get this deal done and be on our way.”

  No more words were spoken until the transport truck arrived in a rev of its engine, then swung around wide, much like the Nomad had done, only from the opposite side.

  Fletcher whistled again, then sent a hand wave to the driver. “Back it in.”

  The driver nodded, then performed a quick turnaround before backing the vehicle into position. When its tailgate was about two feet from the rear of the Nomad’s truck, Fletcher whistled again and held up a closed fist.

  The driver stopped the truck in a squeal of its brake pads, then put it into park before he slid out and walked to the rear. He unhooked the pins holding the tailgate in place and lowered it.

  “Now the intel,” Fletcher said, again holding out his hand.

  The Nomad took a step back, put his swords away, then turned and made a direct path to the fuel truck, squeezing his frame between the open tailgate and his own truck. His head turned for a few beats as he looked inside.

  Dice moved his fingers to his pistol, resting his hand on the leather of the holster. If the Nomad climbed inside, he’d have to pull the weapon and fire.

  The Nomad brought his attention back, then retraced his steps, arriving within striking distance this time. His hand went inside his coat and he pulled out a folded piece of paper. There was no pouch of blood.

  “Shit, I knew it,” Dice mumbled.