Lines in the Sand: Post Apocalyptic EMP Survival Fiction (The Lone Star Series Book 3)

by Bobby Akart

  He rushed to the mare’s head and neck, slid to his knees and forced the tarp underneath. The sound of the approaching vehicles grew louder, convincing Duncan there were several heavy trucks approaching. He deftly looped the paracord through the tarp’s reinforced eyelets and pulled it taut. Then he attached the paracord to his horse’s saddle and harness.

  “Steady, big boy,” he whispered into his horse’s ear.

  He rushed to Sook’s side, glancing up the highway as the trucks’ mufflers grew louder.

  “Sook, I can only lift his head a little. This should give you enough room to pull yourself free. Can you do it?”

  “Yes. Duncan, I hear trucks.”

  “I know, we have to hurry.”

  Duncan scrambled through the wet snow back to his horse. He grabbed the reins and patted his horse on the nose. “Okay, buddy. You gotta pull.”

  Duncan backed away and drew the reins toward him. His horse responded and moved forward. The slack in the paracord lines was removed, and the head of Sook’s horse began to rise out of the snow.

  “Yes!” shouted Sook. “A little more. More!”

  The trucks came into view less than a mile away.

  “Hurry!”

  “I’m free!” shouted Sook.

  Duncan wasted no time in pulling his blade and cutting through the paracord line. He ran around the dead mare and helped Sook to her feet. She stood but put all her weight on her left leg, favoring the right. Duncan scooped her up in his arms and rushed to his horse, which had stood steadfast throughout the ordeal.

  “Grab the horn of the saddle,” he instructed.

  “The handle?” asked Sook.

  “Yes, the handle, and hold on.”

  Sook grabbed the horn with both hands as Duncan hoisted her on top of his horse. He took one quick glance northward, where the blowing snow continued to minimize visibility. The trucks were coming into view.

  Sook slid forward on the seat and made room for Duncan, who slid on behind her. He immediately urged his horse forward off the road and toward a rockpile a hundred feet down a slight incline toward the lake.

  Just as they reached the rocks, he heard the trucks arrive at the scene. He didn’t want to risk being discovered, so he hid behind the rocks and turned so they could observe the vehicles. Duncan removed his rifle from its scabbard and used his scope to get a better look.

  “They are military trucks,” he whispered to Sook, who was rhythmically bending her right leg to work out the pinched nerve she’d received from the fall.

  Through the wind, they could make out voices shouting at one another. This grabbed Sook’s attention immediately.

  “Duncan, they are North Korean!” she exclaimed, causing Duncan to raise his index finger to his lips, indicating she should be quieter.

  Leaning back to her, he asked, “How do you know they are from the North?”

  “We speak Pyongyang dialect,” she replied. “It is different from Seoul dialect.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Duncan continued to study the men’s movements. They were not in uniform and seemed more interested in the dead horse than their surroundings. Fortunately, the blowing snow quickly covered Duncan and Sook’s escape tracks.

  Puzzled, Duncan thought of their encounter on Interstate 40 with the Koreans. Now, another group, identified by Sook as being from the North, crossed their path again.

  Where are these North Koreans going, and more importantly, what are they doing in U.S. military vehicles?

  Duncan didn’t believe in coincidences, especially this one.

  Chapter 51

  December 15

  Gail, Texas

  On a normal day, Gail, Texas, wasn’t exactly bustling with activity. In a county that boasted only six hundred residents, with a county seat like Gail, which had all of two hundred of those Borden Countians, quiet and lack of hustle or bustle was the norm. But this was different.

  After what happened to the Slaughters’ ranch, Major and Preacher thought they’d notify the sheriff of the situation, even though it was in an adjacent county. If there was an organized group, or even a gang of some kind, moving through West Texas capable of destroying property, or even killing, the rest of the residents should know about it.

  As soon as they passed the co-op on Willow Valley Road, they knew there was a problem. The front plate-glass windows were broken out, and the reinforced wood doors had been pulled off their hinges. The doors and the frame lay in a heap in the gravel parking lot.

  “Get your rifle ready,” said Major calmly as he felt for the handle of his pistol in its holster.

  Buildings like the Caprock Café stood empty, as they had for years. But as they approached the county administration complex and the sheriff’s office, they knew Gail had seen trouble.

  Smoke was wafting out of the front door of Dorward Drug Store, a mainstay in the small town since 1901. Major had predicted pharmacies would be one of the first businesses to be looted. He’d commented to Preacher once that the drugstores would be hit by junkies looking for Oxy and preppers looking to stockpile antibiotics. The charred door frame and the billowing smoke indicated the much-sought-after drugs were out of stock during the looters’ shopping days.

  “Do you see anything?” asked Major. “I mean any signs of life whatsoever?”

  “Not even a stray dog, boss,” replied Preacher, who gripped his rifle a little more firmly. “Best be findin’ the sheriff.”

  Major nodded and made his way to the jail. He wheeled the old Toyota feed truck through the brick monument signs identifying the Borden County Sheriff’s Department and parked near the front door. They sat in silence for a moment before exiting the vehicle. If anyone was inside, they didn’t make their presence known.

  “Preach, let’s be real careful, ya hear?”

  “Oh, I sure do,” replied Preacher as he moved around the passenger door of the pickup and moved quickly to the front wall of the building, pressing his back against the brick warmed by the midday sun. Preacher pointed his rifle toward the front door and nodded to Major, who immediately ran to flank the entrance on the other side.

  Once in position, Major motioned for Preacher to pull the glass door open. When he did, Major rushed in with his rifle swinging from side to side in search of hostile targets.

  The modest entry to the facility was empty. After Preacher joined him, the men walked together to clear each room. They found no signs of life, but clearly someone had been searching for anything of value. Desk drawers were pulled out and dumped on the floor. File cabinets were rooted through with papers strewn about. Chairs were knocked over.

  The sheriff’s office had taken the brunt of the search. The space had been searched and apparently trashed out of anger. The flags of the State of Texas and the United States had been shoved into a trash can. One of the looting animals had taken the time to defecate on them.

  “Let’s try the jail cells,” suggested Major.

  Leading with the barrel of his rifle and with Preacher in tow, Major made his way deeper into the dark building toward the jail holding cells. The steel door leading to the concrete and steel cells would normally be locked, but Major doubted the sheriff was holding any prisoners, so when he easily pulled the door open on its wheel and rail system, he wasn’t surprised.

  However, the smell of death that struck him as he entered the cell block knocked him back a step.

  Major pulled his thermal undershirt up to cover his mouth and nose as he moved in. He kept his composure in order to be aware of any threats that might be lurking in the darkness, although he wondered how they could stand the stench.

  “Up ahead,” whispered Preacher as he walked alongside Major. They reached the last cell and discovered the source of the odor.

  It was the sheriff and his chief deputy. They had been stripped naked and forced into the last cell while handcuffed. Their bodies lay facedown on the concrete floor, soaked in their own blood. The men had been shot
in the back several times.

  “May God rest their souls in peace,” said Major as he lowered his rifle.

  Preacher touched his arm and pulled him away from the gruesome scene. “C’mon, boss. Let’s get out of here. We can’t take any chances.”

  Major lingered for a moment and then left. He’d experienced the deaths of his fellow lawmen many times, but he’d never seen anything like this. Sadness and then anger overcame him as he bolted out of the cell block and through the front doors of the sheriff’s department.

  “Animals!” he yelled to the sky. “God, what human could do this?”

  God didn’t respond, but an elderly man who emerged from around the corner of the building did.

  “I seen what happened.”

  Both Major and Preacher swung around and trained their rifles on the old guy, startled by his sudden appearance.

  “Who are you?” demanded Preacher.

  “My name is Cletus Cassiday. I live over on Kincaid Avenue. Sheriff locked me up for a bit ’cause I broke into the Blue Paw diner. I was just lookin’ for food, but Sheriff said he had to show the folks in town that we couldn’t steal from one another.”

  Major stepped past Preacher and reached his arm out to lower his rifle. Major did the same and then began to question the old man. “Cletus, what happened here?”

  Cletus pointed over his shoulder toward the west and began. “They came into town real quick like from that away. It was pickemup trucks and motorsickles. I was back in the cell looking out the window through the bars. I seen ’em comin’ and tried to warn the sheriff, but he never heard me, I guess.

  “Anyhoo, before I knew it, they was shoutin’ at each other out front, and I heard gunshots, so I curled up on the floor and crawled under my bunk. It sounded like they was havin’ one heckuva wrastlin’ match out there for a while.

  “The next thing I know, the steel door was slid open, and they pushed the sheriff and his deputy into the cell doors. They was butt naked and handcuffed. These boys looked mean, mister. I mean, they was wearing leather jackets, covered with tattoos, and had lots of long hair. Real ugly types.

  “I was hidin’ and prayin’ when they locked the sheriff and his man in the last cell. I’m guessin’ the sheriff said somethin’ mouthy because they started shootin’. I heard them boys laughing as the bodies hit the ground.

  “Mister, I couldn’t do nothin’ to help, you know? I just started cryin’, which gave me away. I don’t know why, but they didn’t kill me. They just threw the jail keys in my cell and left, laughin’ all the way out the door.

  “It took me thirty minutes to get the courage to let myself out.”

  The man fell to his knees and began to sob. Major lowered himself to the ground to comfort the old guy.

  “Cletus, there wasn’t anything you could’ve done to stop those maniacs. Thank God that you’re alive, my friend, and go on home, okay?”

  “Yes, sir. I was just comin’ back ’cause I felt bad for not burying the sheriff and his deputy. They was good people, you know?”

  Major smiled and patted the man on the back. “I tell you what, Cletus. We’ll help you bury them. Can you tell me when this happened?”

  “Yesterday mornin’, right after sunrise.”

  “Do you know which way they headed when they left?” asked Major.

  “Well, I’m not certain ’cause I stayed under the bunk. But I don’t think it was the way they came. I would’ve heard them through the window.”

  Major stood and looked down both directions of the highway. Most likely, he hoped, they went farther east toward Snyder. There would be no way to warn them, and it was probably too late anyway. He grimaced as he reminded himself that all he could do at this point was take care of his own.

  But first, he had to bury two fallen law enforcement officers who didn’t deserve the fate God had dealt them.

  Chapter 52

  December 16

  Near Hobbs, New Mexico

  “Okay, seriously y’all, I’m gettin’ tired of finding a side road that should lead us into Texas only to have to turn around ’cause there are a gazillion foreigners in our way.” Riley was becoming increasingly frustrated at their efforts to return home and being thwarted by the massive crowds encamped at the Texas border.

  “They’re not foreigners,” said Palmer. “They’re Americans just like us.”

  “News flash, sis. We ain’t Americans anymore. We’re proud Texans, and these idiots are in our way. I wanna know where the loyal Texans reentry gate is located. There oughta be signs or somethin’.”

  Cooper rolled his eyes and continued to drive. These two had been scrappin’ for the last day and a half, and it was starting to get on his nerves, but joining the fray wouldn’t help matters. He had, however, given up on trying to placate Riley’s frustrations. Cooper was frustrated too and concerned about their fuel levels. Their southward travels were not the issue. It was the constant five-to-ten-mile excursions toward the state line that wasted precious diesel.

  As they crossed Highway 62, he saw a road sign that read Carlsbad Caverns, 50 miles. He remembered a class field trip he’d taken when he was in grade school to the natural attraction. His mind wandered to the tour guide, who’d told the grade school class of twenty kids that the caverns were big enough to hold two thousand classes just like theirs all at once. Cooper remembered looking deep in the Big Room and imagining it full of people.

  Palmer unfolded the map again, which was now exhibiting signs of wear and tear. The edges were tattered and torn, and holes had begun to appear where the creases were made from the constant folding process.

  “Highway 62 would’ve turned into Highway 180 at the Texas border—a straight shot into Gail. The farther south we go now, the more we’ll have to backtrack to get home.”

  “What are our next options?” asked Cooper.

  “A small town called Nadine is up ahead a couple of miles. After that, nothing in the way of roads until we hit a town called Eunice.”

  “Let me think a minute,” said Cooper. When Dallas had turned sixteen, he and Cooper would joyride around West Texas in one of the feed trucks. Dallas loved geography, and although the younger Cooper didn’t care that much about Permian Basins or the Yates Oil Field, he enjoyed hearing the older brother, whom he adored, share his local knowledge during their explorations.

  “Coop, we’re comin’ up on the turn at Nadine. Are we gonna take it?”

  Cooper shook his head. “Nah, it’ll just be the same story as before. I’ve got a better idea.”

  “What’s the plan?” said Riley, who suddenly came out of his funk. He was tired of the same old, same old too.

  “Dallas used to call this area the land of a thousand wells,” Cooper began to explain. “We’re in the Central Basin, and the ranch is in the adjacent Midland Basin.”

  “Now, Coop, that’s real exciting, and informative too, I might add,” said Riley jokingly, which earned him a playful elbow and a chuckle from his sister.

  “Yeah, yeah. Hear me out, guys. There ain’t nothin’ out here except oil wells and the dusty service roads that connect them. Dallas used to take me joyridin’ over this way back when we were all kids.”

  “How does that help us?” asked Palmer.

  Cooper drove past the road leading from Nadine to Texas, which indicated what his plans were. “Those service roads are not on anybody’s maps. We’ll turn off here in a bit, about halfway between Nadine and Eunice. Then we’ll start to work our way through the land of a thousand wells until we’re in Texas.”

  Palmer threw the map over her shoulder into the back of Red Rover. “I don’t think we’ll need this anymore. This is a great idea, Coop. At least there’ll be less resistance, and once we cross the border, we can find our way home with our eyes closed.”

  Riley responded enthusiastically. “Yeah, saddle up, y’all. We’re goin’ home!”

  Chapter 53

  December 17

  South of Nadine, New Mexico
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  “Hey! Keep your hands off our truck!” Riley yelled at the refugees through his window as Cooper inched the vehicle closer to the border gate they’d found after traversing the oil fields. They’d run straight into the double rows of chain-link fencing supplemented with razor wire after heading east from the highway. They’d encountered a few refugees walking in both directions, but they chose to turn south after one group of teens yelled, “There’s a gate a few miles down, but they won’t let you in unless your already Texans.”

  That was all the Rodeo Kids needed to hear because they were genuine, born-and-raised Texans, and they had their driver’s licenses to prove it. Well, at least the Texas residency part.

  Approaching the gate was difficult, as the refugees surrounding the entrance were uncooperative. Cooper kept Red Rover moving, but soon some of the people became hostile.

  “You can’t get in!” one of them shouted.

  Another yelled, “Wait in line like we are. They’ll let us in eventually!”

  Cooper refused to heed their complaints and kept going. Finally, Riley began to shout back at them, screaming, “We are Texans! Let us pass!”

  Cooper’s persistent driving coupled with Riley’s allowing the barrel of his rifle to be seen did the trick, and they reached the security checkpoint. Cooper exited the vehicle and approached the guards with his hands raised.

  “We’re Texas citizens! We’re Texans. Please let us through.”

  One of the guards raised his rifle and pointed it at Cooper’s chest. A red dot danced around his heart as the laser sight found its mark.

  “I’ve got my license. It’s in my wallet. I also have my voter’s registration.”

  “Real slow like, cowboy. Any sudden move and you’re done, understand?”

  Cooper cautiously removed his wallet and handed it to the guard through an opening in the fence. They went through its contents, even taking the time to compare the picture on his laminated Professional Bull Riders Association card to his face. Fortunately, the beard Cooper had grown didn’t change his appearance that much.