by JK Franks
“Oh, hush up and crawl up on this wagon.”
It was only then that Bobby heard the snort of a horse. “I . . . I can’t . . . you have to get away from me.”
“Naw, sir, I ain’t heard no dogs, and I can tell you ain’t gonna make it half a mile in this shape. I’ll get us on out of the way of dese heathens. You a good man, I aint gonna let you go jus’ yet.”
Bobby was too far out of it to argue, so he allowed himself to be pushed onto the deck of the wooden wagon. He heard Tremaine climb up and get the horses moving. Far off in the distance, he could hear motorcycles. Please, God, let Jordan and Jacob get away, and protect these people who helped me tonight. The sounds faded, and the world slipped sideways.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Sunlight was streaming in like slices. He could see dust motes and insects through the scattered rays of light. His mouth seemed glued shut, and he ached all over. How long had he been out? Days? weeks? He smelled hay and realized that was what he was lying on. Sitting up sorely, he found he was in a barn; the rough siding left wide gaps for the sun to shine through. A wagon—he assumed the same he had been riding in—was parked nearby.
He gently lifted his shirt and looked at the bullet wound. It appeared the dressing had been changed recently. A few streaks of red radiated from the area: possible infection. He had some antibiotics in his kit—if they hadn’t been lost. He would need to get those started soon.
“Hello?” he called out.
There was no answer, but he realized that calling out might not be the smart thing to do anyway. The pain was still intense, and the barn swam in and out of view. It wasn’t large. He was lying on a low row of hay bales that were stacked to the rafters behind him. His pack and weapons were propped nearby. He reached for and missed the pack. His lack of coordination surprised him; his body usually did what he instructed it to do, but then again, it was not used to this level of abuse. Twice more he tried before his fingers finally landed inside the strap.
“Fuck.” No antibiotic. Not even any pain reliever. His supplies were mostly gone. A fuzzy memory let him know that it was his fault: he had dropped the contents of his pack himself. The other supplies in his trauma kit were scattered around him, left over from whoever had dressed his wounds. Remembering something, he pulled his spare socks from the pack. Inside was a single packet of Tylenol 3. Feebly, he tore the pack open and attempted to swallow the pills. His mouth was so dry that all he managed to do was cough them out onto the floor. He fell off the hay onto the dirt floor as he went looking for the pills.
As he found the last one, a shadow blocked out the sun and Bobby looked up to see a battered, half-full bottle of water being offered to him. His eyes would not focus beyond the water. He took it from the outstretched hand and downed it along with the dirty pain pills. Looking up, the face of the helper remained in shadow, and his vision still could not focus on any one thing. “Thank you,” he said.
Who was this person? He propped himself back against the hay and moved his head so that the light coming in didn’t put the face in full shadow. The person didn’t appear large, but he didn’t trust his eyes or his mind anymore. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The figure knelt beside him and tiny arms enveloped his neck. Jacob’s tears fell down the side of his sparse beard. “Where did you come from? I’m so glad to see you.”
Bobby hugged the boy as his heart broke open. He loved this precious child.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Bobby hobbled and stumbled out of the barn, trailing well behind the boy. “Jake . . . Jacob, hold on, slow down.” Instead, the child came back, took his hand, and pulled him toward the house. The ground seemed to be tilting away from him in all directions. Infection, blood loss . . . something was still up. Whatever it was, he felt helpless to stop it at that moment. “Jacob, where is your mom? Is she inside?”
Jacob kept tugging on his arm and got him up the board steps. “Dat you, boy?” an older woman’s voice sounded from inside. Jacob pushed on the unpainted wooden door and dragged Bobby into the darkened interior. “Well, it is you, and I see you done brought your friend back from the dead. Weren’t sure you was gonna make it. Jus’ wasn’t your time I guess. Come on in.”
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Mahalia. She was Tremaine’s aunt. The boy was still pulling on Bobby. ”You gonna pull his arm off boy. You better go wit him, mister. He not gonna stop ’til you do.”
Jacob pulled him to a side room where a window was open. The sunlight streamed in. Bobby was relieved to see Jordan lying on the bed. It was the first time he had truly noticed how lovely she was. Lying on her back, fresh flowers in a vase near the bed, she radiated beauty. Jacob went to his mom’s side. Bobby knelt beside the bed. She must be exhausted, he thought, as he reached for her hand.
Mrs. Mahalia leaned in the doorway. “We did all we could for da poor thing.” Bobby was holding her hand now and just beginning to realize how cold it was. He looked at Jacob then turned to look back at Jordan. His confusion was obvious.
“I sorry mister. Mister . . . can’t remember what my nephew said your name was.”
“B-Bobby.” It came out as a whisper.
“Mr. Bobby.” She moved around to the side of the bed as well. “The snake got her down on her leg. Gotta be Cottonmouth. Dey bad out dere near d’river.”
“But we were on the river for almost a week. How could this happen now?”
“Good Lord got his own clock. I thought she was gonna make it, I truly did. She kept asking if you was okay. Maybe she made a deal wit da Lord. Swapped her life for yours. Dat’s what I think, ’cause I wouldna give ya two nickels for yo’ life last night. You was a goner.”
Bobby buried his head on the bed beside her. The old springs creaked under the pressure. Tremaine said the boy wanted you to see her before we . . . well, you know. Tre and dat boy got some way o’ talking I ain't figured outs yet.”
Bobby held his arms out to Jacob and hugged the boy again as he came close. “Thank you, thank you, both.” Blackness clouded his vision again.
This time when he woke it was dark. He was on a sofa that had seen better days. Jacob was sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa. The child was breathing deeply, his tiny snores barely audible. Bobby ran a finger through the boy’s wispy hair. Many years earlier, in another life, he had done the same with his daughter’s hair. He knew he might never see Kaylie again, but while she was safe and old enough to take care of herself, what did this boy have? What was there for him to look forward to?
He lay there for a short while, letting his sadness overtake him: an old, familiar friend. The sound of a chair scraping on the wooden floor came from another room. Easing softly from the sofa so as not to disturb the boy, he moved in the direction of the sound.
Sitting at a table in the tiny kitchen were Tremaine, Mrs. Mahalia and another man. The three were drinking coffee and talking softly. Tremaine’s aunt noticed him first.
“Come sit down, Mr. Bobby. You feel up t’eatin’?”
“Umm, I don’t know, honestly. Maybe if you have anything to spare. Something smells really good.”’
“Good deal, getting yo’ appetite back. You gonna be fine, jus’ fine. Ain’t nuttin’ special, just some greens, and ham hocks, but I got a half-pan o’ cornbread left. I was keeping it all hot for you, case you waked up.”
As Bobby sat down, Tremaine introduced him to the other man: his brother, Wilson. “I’m sorry I had to leave today, but we needed some help. Wid da boy’s mom. That jus’ a shame, she a sweet woman and dat boy . . . man, he something else.”
“Thank you, both, for what you did for her.”
Mahalia pushed a steaming bowl and a big wedge of cornbread in front of him. The smell was intoxicating, and he dug in rudely.
She laughed, “Gave you some extra pot liquor in there if’n ya wanna sop it up wid dat bread. You want coffee? Ain’t got no sugar or milk or nuttin’.”
“Thanks, yes thanks. Coffee wo
uld be great . . . Mrs. Mahalia, this is fantastic.”
“You jus’ hongry boy,” she smiled at the compliment, though. “Like I said, nuttin’ special.”
Bobby paused, realizing how many questions he had and how rude he was being. “I’m sorry for being a pig. Did Jacob eat?”
Wilson spoke up, “Oh, yeah, the boy ate good. Only time he left yo’ side all day. Well, when we laid his momma down he came out and helped. Planted flowers out there and scratched her name in a scrap o’ wood. Tre said a few words. I sure am sorry for your loss.”
“Tremaine, I have to ask, where did you find them?”
“Dat boy was standing in the middle of the road not two miles from the church. He made me stop, then took me to where his mom was lying. I woulda never seen ’em in the dark if he din’t have one of dose li’l glowin’ sticks in his hand. I thought I was dead and some ghost had done come to fetch me. I’m jus’ glad it was me and not one of the crazies.”
Bobby smiled. “He wouldn’t have shown himself to any of them. He knows good people. He knew you would help him.”
“You sho right about dat! I noticed that he din’t seem surprised to see you in the wagon neither—like he knew you’d be there. If you hadn’t mentioned that the boy din’t talk I would’t na had a clue who he was.”
“That child got da gift. He’s special, he is.”
“Aunt Mahalia, don’t be starting somethin’. Bobby knows. I’ll tell you what, though, he does know danger. Not sure how his mom got hurt wi’ him ‘round. He had this thing in his hand.”
Bobby took the black object and saw it was the Taser. It had been fired. The wires coiled out and the bloody barbs were still attached.
“He sat on the buckboard wi’ me and stopped me twice on our ride over here. Both times he put his finger to my lips, and then I see armed guys in the distance crossin’ the road. He may not say nuttin’, but I starts listnin’ real good to him after dat.”
Bobby gave a chuckle as he took another bite. “Where are they? The Messengers, I mean.” He heard Mrs. Mahalia huff back over at the stove.
“They jus’ thugs . . . ain’t got no message ’ceptin hate. Thought dey was a myth—a boogeyman tale ’til yesterday. Jus’ a damn plague, dat’s what they is.”
Tremaine refilled his cup from the pot. “They all out there, bunches of ’em. Thanks to you, all our people got hunkered down. I decided to come here cause it’s well out da way. Don’t think nobody’ll come this far. We uh, we borrowed one o’ your radios.”
“My radios.”
Wilson answered “Yeah, one on your pack kept makin’ noise, and when we took it out it was dem folk. Dey was cussin’ and lookin’ for someone. That was you, weren’t it?”
“Probably. I took it off one of the three that shot me.” Bobby looked over at the older woman. She was pretending not to listen. “They had no further use for it. Yes, they were looking for me. I told your brother to leave me. It’d be dangerous to be found with me.”
“Yeah, he’s a stubborn one, always gotta be doing the right thing.” Wilson chuckled. “From what we be hearing it don’t matta, they killin’ and stealin’ anything they finds.”
“Did you hear anything else?”
“Yeah, sounded like somethin’ going on with ’em. They waitin’ for more to join ’em from somewhere else. Several thousand mo’. They got a real army. The man said for all of ’em to come to the dam on the river. Thousand mo’ . . . lawd.”
Bobby tried to do some calculations in his foggy brain. “Means they lost two-thirds or more in the battle.”
“They was that many mo’ than that? Mercy,” Mrs. Mahalia tutted.
Tremaine looked at his aunt. “We okay here, they heading somewhere else anyway.”
“And just how you know dat?” she asked as she sat back down.
“Just what da man said. I figured they’ll hit Jackson next, I know they could wipe dem gangs out down there, but dey said they’re going someplace called Harris Springs.”
Bobby dropped the fork. “I need the other radio and the GPS. Is my pack in here?”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Harris Springs, Mississippi
Bartos was trying his best to get all the information down. Bobby was talking low and steady. All thoughts of radio discipline were gone. Bobby was injured, panicked, and paranoid. He had made Bartos ask the on-duty radioman, Scoots, to leave the room and waited for Bartos to make sure and secure the door.
“She is there, though?”
“Yeah Bobby, she’s here. Scott’s away right now, but Kaylie is here with us, just not on the base.” He didn’t want to say ship, but Bobby already had several times.
“Just let her know, okay?”
“Of course, I’ll go find her soon as I get off. I got your position, and we’ll get a mission pulled together to head in your direction.”
“You can’t, man. I wish you could, I have someone I’d like my daughter to meet, but it’s too dangerous. If you come up this way you’ll run straight into the Messengers. They’re heading out in two days, and they’re coming for you. Do you understand me? They know about you, about the boat. I don’t know how, or why, but you’re the next target. Someone must have tipped them off.”
“Bobby, listen, I get that. I don’t know why they would, but I get it. That puts them a few days away depending on how many are on foot. Could be a week. We can get to you before then.”
“Negative, you have to do whatever you can to keep my daughter safe, you have to move everybody on the ship to someplace safe. The motorized column and the Judges could be on that road to Har—headed your way today.”
The two men talked for several more minutes and agreed to talk again in five hours. Bartos sat back, going over the details. He then reviewed the radio logs and spoke with Scoots who pulled up some recorded conversations on the laptop. What he concluded left him sick inside: he knew who the goddamn traitor was. He went to go find Abe and Kaylie. At the bottom of the gangway, he also ran into Jack.
“Where’s the fire, Cajun?”
“We have a problem.”
“I know, but the storm’s—”
“No, we have a new problem—several actually. Follow me, I may need your help.”
They ran into Kaylie first. She was overjoyed to hear that her dad was okay and had made it farther south. “When are we going to go get him?”
Bartos turned to look her in the eyes. “We did make a plan, but it didn’t include you, and your dad has forbidden any of us from coming to him. The whole God’s fucking army is apparently headed straight for us, and in the next day or two they’ll be between us and him.” Jack and Kaylie looked at one another, completely baffled. “Yes, you heard me right.”
“You have to take me,” Kaylie said determinedly. “I know you’re going to go anyway.”
“The plan is to take Solo and Abe. You have to stay here. Jack, could you please watch my back?”
Puzzled, Jack said, “Sure.”
Bartos saw Abe at the boardwalk watching someone intently with a pair of binoculars. “Abe, can I have a word?” The big man turned around with the same neutral expression he always seemed to have.
“Sure, Bartos, what’s up?”
“I need you for another road trip.”
“Cool, when do we leave? I need to get my gear.”
“Yeah, you see that’s the problem. I needed you for a trip to get Kaylie’s dad. Unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to take you.”
He looked confused. “Why not?”
“Why don’t you take a fucking guess?”
The big guy just shrugged and looked confused.
“It’s really simple. You’re a fucking spy for the Messengers. Solo, takedown!”
Abe went for his gun. The dog made an otherworldly growl as he leapt from the shadows where he had been crouched. The big man was fast, but the dog moved with preternatural speed. Solo had the man’s gun hand disabled with a few tearing bites, after which he went directly
for the big man’s throat. Abe was huge, but the dog didn’t care. Bartos delivered a sweeping kick that took one of Abe’s legs out from under him and he crashed to the ground. Abe punched Solo with his good arm and the dog gave a yelp then went in for more.
Bartos got a hand in to remove Abe’s pistol which he flung to the side. One of the man’s flailing legs caught Bartos and the impact sent him sailing several feet. Give the kid credit, he wasn’t going down easily. Then, Solo ripped an ear free and with it a large hanging piece of skin from his face. The pain must have been intense as Abe screamed and grabbed his face. The fight was leaving him quickly.
Jack and Kaylie watched in horrid fascination.
Since the order had been for a takedown and not a kill, Solo stopped the attack just short of a fatal bite. Bartos walked over to the enormous man, who was now down on all fours gasping for air. “We fucking trusted you, and you sold us out. Why?”
“It’s not me,”
“Really?” Bartos was kneeling over the bloodied man, Solo’s jaws still at his throat. “Care to swear on a Bible? If you’re lying, it’s gonna be your eternal soul, cause I’m going to kill you either way.”
“Fuck you!”
“That’s it? That’s your final words on this Earth?” Bartos looked up to see a small crowd beginning to gather.
“You were good, Abe, you did just enough to keep us believing in you. Hell, you even saved my life more than once. Unfortunately, you were the only one on radio duty when someone made contact. And this scar on the back of your hand. What is that? It looks like a tattoo that was started but never finished. What was it going to be, a cross, maybe? Didn’t make sense ’til Scott’s brother told me about the mark. The mark every Messenger receives.”
“Kaylie . . . Kay, uh.” Abe struggled to call out, but having Solo latched onto his collar made it difficult. “Did he tell you, your whore mother is dead? She’s dead, and they’ve known it for weeks. All you people are unworthy . . . you’ve been judged already . . .” Solo’s jaws clamped shut with a grisly snap. Bartos could not remember giving him the hand signal, but he must have . . ..