The Longest Road (Book 3): The Other Side

by A. S. Thompson

  “But while you are here I ask of you only one thing. Feel free to engage the good people of this town, but do not upset the delicate balance with your words of ‘infection’ and ‘cure.’ False words and stirring panic will not go unnoticed...”

  He stepped toward Nick and leaned in for the last part.

  “It has long since been foretold that those who go against the Lord will join the Beast and his minions...”

  Insinuation or warning, Nick was not vexed by the words, but he did find the Preacher’s sudden change to a smile off-putting.

  “Lastly, it is my hope to see all of you for our evening sermon. It will be a very enlightening, this I can promise. Until then, I bid you adieu.”

  Kingston, Colorado

  December 2, 2009

  1038 hours

  On his stomach, Alex watched the LIFE jet taxi to a hangar in between the airport's tower and main terminal. Before the airplane had stopped rolling, however, the side door had been manually opened.

  A man with wavy blond hair had been waiting eagerly to exit and confidently descended the steps two at a time.

  As the Guardsmen hurried out single file, Blondie gestured his arm like a third-base baseball coach waving in a go-ahead run.

  "Let's go, let's go, let's go! Dizzy find me two workable trucks! I want to be on the move in five minutes!"

  Head covered in a white beanie, the Guard named Dizzy nodded, then pointed to three others and said, “Rico, Radak, and Haufman. With me, let’s move!”

  Blondie turned to the remaining five Guardsmen, and said, "Get our gear off the plane and triple check everything. I want weapons hot, and each one of you geared up and good to go by the time Dizzy gets back."

  Dressed in matching white digital patterns for a winter operation, the security personnel shouted back different versions of “roger” before hustling in and out of the jet.

  One of the five Guardsmen, however, remained with Blondie.

  Alex observed no insignias or visible symbols of rank but a definite limp in the man’s left leg.

  "Boss," Limpy said, trying to get Blondie’s attention. "Boss...Daytona!"

  "So that's Daytona," Alex whispered to himself. "Totally seems like a cocky douche."

  "What?" replied Daytona Briggs. He rose from a crouched position with a handful of snow only to let the clump slide from his palm. He wiped his wet hand over his head, bringing back two locks of hair.

  "How do we even know he'll be here?"

  Limpy shifted nervously, thinking Daytona’s reaction to the question was taken as insubordination.

  "I just mean why do you think West will drive through here of all places?"

  "Besides our satellites tracking them?" Daytona answered as if that was enough.

  "Well, the techs said they lost West’s vehicle a couple hundred miles back due to atmospheric conditions-"

  "I know West. I studied him. He's a soldier. An operator. I know how he thinks. He knows precisely which route truck three is taking, and he will want to use the bridge. It’s the perfect ambush site."

  "I know but there are other places-"

  "What part of ‘perfect ambush site’ is not getting through your head?"

  Limpy shifted to his other leg and winced.

  "Look at you, Simon," Daytona scoffed with a slight chuckle. "Pathetic. That's why I'm better than you. Back in New Bedford, you got yourself shot. If you had just let me go down the dock and put a couple extra rounds in West, none of this would be happening. But no, you were complaining about the bullet in your leg and the police coming. I was wounded too, don't you remember? A couple knife wounds in my palms, my fucking tendon was damn near severed, and did you see me complaining?"

  Daytona made a point to show how miraculously his body had healed. He held up his scarred hands and said, “Grip strength is even stronger than before. Albert wanted to get rid of the scars, but I wanted to keep them as a reminder. Never again.”

  Then Daytona squatted on his bad knee and jumped up and down.

  “Albert says only one more session and I’ll be a hundred percent. No limp like you...”

  “Damn, for a dude who West effed up, this guy healed like a pro athlete,” Alex noted. “Must be juicin’ for sure.”

  "This is why I am elite. This is why I can't be beat," Daytona continued. He stared Simon down from toe to head, then, without any warning, he reached out quickly and wrapped his large hand around Simon's limpy leg.

  “Boss!” Simon clenched his teeth but did not cower, though, he did not dare strike back either.

  “Day…tona,” Simon said, though his breath was all but gone.

  "I was made for this. I am a machine of war," Daytona declared proudly. He pressed his fingers harder into the scar tissue. "Don't ever question me again, understood?"

  Simon barely managed the word "understood" before Daytona released his grip.

  “I thought that stuff was just the cure?” Simon asked, massaging away the pain.

  “It is, but it's so much more than that. Albert may be a complete ass-hat, but he does good work. Gotta give my brother credit, well, just never to his face.”

  One of the Guards with a name tag of “Benson” rushed over. Holding a large radio in his hand, he declared, "Sir, I have Marco on. He says he's taking some serious heat."

  "Fuck! It’s already starting! Where is my fucking transport?"

  “I'll check,” Simon volunteered, moving with haste.

  Daytona curled his hands into a fist and let out a loud roar. He bashed the side of the jet, denting the hard metal.

  "What the? Dude broke his hand for sure!" whispered Alex.

  Daytona pulled back his fist, and sure enough, blood ran down his palm and dropped to the snow. He pulled out a small tin can and placed one pill under his tongue, and after a moment, he turned around and his bulging muscles relaxed to a calmer state.

  Benson appeared nervous to speak, but he held up the radio and asked, "Boss, what do you want me to tell Marco?"

  Daytona lowered his shoulders and exhaled slow. A faint smiled creased his lips. "Tell him good luck."

  Benson raised an eyebrow, "Sir?It’s Marco. He's under attack. He's wondering when we will be there to help."

  "That's war."

  Just then, one Ford Expedition and one Ford F-350 came sliding around the control tower.

  "Boss, transport’s here! We’re good to go."

  In less than ten-seconds, bags were tossed into the vehicles and the anxious Guardsmen piled in after. Daytona got in the passenger side of the Expedition and slammed his palm against the side saying, "Let's go, let's go, let's go!"

  ***

  The four lane bridge looked like the aftermath of a war zone.

  When he had given the signal, West, Travis and Clint each fired three full magazines of armor piercing ammunition at the truck. Travis and Clint focused on the tires; the conditioned rubber didn't stand a chance. West, meanwhile, devastated the engine block.

  Taken by surprise, the driver fought with the steering wheel, struggling to keep control.

  The truck and trailer slid on the slick road, swerving from left to right, grinding its sides between abandoned cars and the bridge’s safety barriers. On the last swerve to the right, the truck’s front end blasted through the guardrail and broke partially through the concrete barrier. Despite the front right tire hanging off, the truck was not in immediate danger of going over.

  West rose from behind the cover of an abandoned station wagon and shouted, “Driver! Get out of the cab and open the back. Do that, and I swear you'll walk away from this alive!”

  The driver rolled his window down halfway and fired at West who ducked and let the station wagon absorb the rounds.

  Clint returned fire, but the driver rolled up the window, sealing himself safely behind the bulletproof glass and reinforced framing.

  “Looks like he’s talking to someone,” Clint reported, observing the driver speak on a handheld device.

  From h
is point of view, Travis was unable to see but speculated, “Probably his superiors, requesting support.”

  “Doesn’t matter. No one’s here to help him now.”

  Clint snuck behind cars until arriving at a more favorable location; one directly facing the driver’s door. “What’s the plan, West?”

  Travis hustled to the truck and positioned himself on the back right hand side. “In case the driver bails, I got this side covered.”

  West clicked the transmit button on his microphone and replied, “Doesn't look like he's going to take the easy route. I'm going to give him one last chance.”

  West repeated himself and added, “You think you are safe inside that rig, but I promise you we will get inside. Get out now and you walk. If not...”

  The driver pulled the satellite phone from his ear, and then extended his middle finger.

  “Pride comes before the fall,” West mumbled, loosely quoting Scripture. “Clint, Travis, light it up!”

  Travis and Clint stalked up the sides of the rig until the cargo separated from the driver's cab. While West attacked from the front, the two others joined in, creating a triangle of fire. At first, the bullets dented the metal exterior and bounced off the windshield. But halfway into their next magazines, West realized the damage was marginal and insufficient.

  “Cease fire, cease fire!” shouted West.

  “West, it’s Alex,” came a call from the radio.

  “Busy, Alex. Unless it's important, save it. I'll call you after we are done.”

  “West, you need to hear this! It's Daytona. The same dude you told me about on the way to Blue Springs. He just landed at our same freakin' airport with about eight other dudes; guys that look like they belong in Die Hard Two. I’ve been watching ‘em. They just got some cars and are coming your way now!”

  West growled. He watched as the driver rose from under the steering wheel. After checking his safety and security, the driver smiled smugly, and then held up two middle fingers.

  We are running out of time, West thought, then answered, “Thanks for the heads up, Alex. Make sure Jones has the plane prepped. Stay put. We'll be coming in hot. Over and out.”

  West whistled to Clint and Travis.

  “Change of plans. Looks like time isn't on our side. We have company inbound.”

  “What's the plan?” Travis asked, sliding underneath the rig to meet up with the others.

  West’s mind broke down the scenario.The truck is immobilized, but the driver would be safe until reinforcements arrived. If we can’t gain control of the truck, then we need to make sure it’s destroyed.

  West scanned the rig and immediately found the solution. “Fuel line.”

  Clint raised a dubious eyebrow. “What about it?”

  West flipped open a pocketknife. “Slice it, drain it, blow it. The blast should flip the truck up and over the guard rail.”

  “But the vaccine for Alex! It's our last chance to get some!”

  “We don't have time, Travis. This is the more important objective.”

  “West is right. We are outnumbered, and if we find ourselves on the wrong side of this bridge when backup gets here, we'll get gunned down easy.”

  “But I promised Alex,” Travis started to say but stopped. He knew the others were right. The mission was the truck and the elimination of the Ambrosia inside it.

  West located the rubber line and severed it with a hard downward cut. Diesel spewed from the line pooling on the icy ground beneath. “Travis, grab me a flare.”

  The spry former Second Lieutenant sprinted to the Ford Escape and returned with a road flare in no time.

  With both mirrors shot off, the driver pressed his face against the window to investigate, but at his angle, he was hard pressed to see anything. Quickly, his prior confidence drained to anxiousness as he shifted nervously in his seat.

  “Clint, Travis, might wanna back up,” West said, scraping the tip of flare against the road. He pointed the red flames at the driver and continued, “I gave you two chances, now you die.”

  West flung the flare toward the truck and ran for cover. The sparks from the strontium nitrate ignited the fuel and the fire quickly spread to the tank.

  The explosion lifted the truck up and over the railing. The driver's cab and the first container shell were completely suspended in open air over the valley. The bulk of the cargo hold, however, was caught on the twisted guard rail and support cables.

  Surrounded by flames and bits of jagged metal, the entire rig teetered; only moments until it would fall.

  Clint joined West at the Ford Escape, but noticed Travis standing still. “Don’t worry, it’ll fall. We have to move now though!”

  But Travis remained unresponsive.

  West turned the ignition and honked once.

  Clint hustled to Travis and grabbed him by the shoulder. “There's nothing you can do for him! West gave him two chances...”

  The driver was alive, screaming for help inside the burning cabin.

  “That rig is gonna fall any second, and he’ll be out of his misery.”

  “No! Not the driver! Fuck him! I’m looking at that!”

  The explosion created a two by four foot hole into one of the shipping containers. And beyond the scorched marks in the metal where the explosion ripped into the hold, there exposed, was a pallet of Ambrosia.

  “The vaccine! It's right there! I can get to it!”

  “What's going on? We need to leave ten-seconds ago!”

  “It's the vaccine, West! Part of the truck was breached. I think Travis wants to-” Clint started saying, but turned and changed his sentence. “Damnit! Travis is going back for it!”

  Frustrated, West kicked the door open and slid out. He stepped on the front tire and lifted himself to the hood for a higher vantage point.

  No signs of Daytona- yet, thought West. Then he spun around and watched as Travis squished his way through the icy road. “Travis get your ass back here! That’s an order! Damnit! Clint, go get him! Drag his ass back here if you need to!”

  “Whoa,” Travis exclaimed; speed and slippery ground causing him to slide nearly over the broken guardrail.

  Stable, Travis reached upward but was too late for a first attempt as the back of the truck teetered up and out of reach.

  “Help me!” The driver screamed as he clung to the doorframe. He put an unsteady foot against the door jam and reached a burned arm around the rig. “Come on, don't let me die like this!”

  “Fuck you. Even if I could, I wouldn't.”

  Travis then turned his attention back to the hole in the cargo container. It was at its high point but coming down.

  “Come on, baby,” he said, then repeated the words in Spanish.

  It felt like a never-ending teeter-totter exchange, but the truck finally came within grabbing distance. Travis reached through the jagged metal and attempted to grab one of the small, briefcase-like containers of Ambrosia.

  “Mierda!” he cursed, missing the case, which was lodged behind a wooden pallet. Rather than risk waiting, he held on to the side as the truck teetered up again.

  “Travis!” Clint called out from below. “Let go! That thing is gonna fall!”

  Travis’ hands were bleeding from the jagged metal they firmly grasped on to. Despite the pain, he grabbed hold of the case and pulled with all his might. “It’s coming loose!”

  “Travis, the truck is sliding off the bridge! Let go now or you’ll go off with it!”

  Travis flexed his muscles to their maximum and cringed. “Almost got it!”

  Finally, the case dislodged, but pulling with such force caused Travis’ arm to whip back like a rubber band. Subsequently, the handle slid from his blood smeared grip.

  The trajectory caused Travis to gasp, and gasp a second time as the case hit the guardrail and bounced up.

  “Clint! Grab it!”

  The Secret Serviceman rushed to retrieve the case, but the same hasty action caused him to slip on the snow. Steadying hi
mself, Clint watched as the case came back down on the railing, this time favoring the valley.

  “Clint!”

  Dennis dove forward, right hand overextended. His fingers made it to the railing just as the case spun off into the deep ravine.

  “I missed it!”

  Feet nearing the ground, Travis was faced with a dire dilemma. Above him, a second case lingered within arm’s reach. Below, the metal underbelly of the truck was screeching as it ground against the guard railing and concrete bridge.

  “There's another one! I can get it!”

  But Clint felt differently. “No time!” he yelled, grabbing onto Travis' legs.

  The exact moment Travis released his grip, the back end of the truck raised up slid off the bridge.

  Travis collapsed on top of Clint’s chest. “No, no, no! What did you do?” he said, scrambling to peer over the edge.

  He watched despondently as Alex's saving grace fell hundreds of feet to the bottom of the ravine. It crushed against the large stones and continued to topple for some time. After finally coming to a stop harsh flames consumed the truck and its cargo.

  “Alex,” Travis mumbled, lowering his head.

  “Get your asses back now!” yelled West. “They’re here!”

  ***

  "What are you doing?" asked Jones.

  Alex loaded an AR-15, wrapped the sling around his shoulder, and began pocketing extra magazines in a flak jacket. "You heard the radio call.”

  "Yes, and I also heard what West said."

  “‘Stay put,’ I know. Geez, am I the only one who thinks long term?" Alex coughed up a light spray of bloody mucus, staining the sleeve near the crease on the inside of his elbow.

  Unable to comprehend Alex’s logic, Jones waited for an explanation.

  "Look, Harry. Our guys will be taking out that truck any second now. After they do, who do you think is going to be on their asses? That's right, that bad ass dude Daytona and his bunch of merry assholes. Hence the 'coming in hot' as West put it."

  “So what do you think you are going to do?”

  “Stop that from happening. Look, I don’t have time to explain. Get the plane fired up and ready to go, but keep the hangar doors closed. I'll be back ASAP.”