by Joel Shaw
Milton listened as Amber told about her run in with Wicked Alice, something about a reward for Jordan’s capture. A reward...dead or alive? His body may be worth something, after all. His mind wandered, he was more convinced than ever that he must act alone. Every man for himself, that’s what Jordan said, and he was right, and now, while everyone was distracted with health concerns and other nonsense, would be a good time to get started. His easy going character and general good nature had cast him long ago as the family jester, the buffoon. No one would suspect him of conspiring against the group.
He rose and stretched, “I think I’ll go for a drive, take a look around, see what I can find.” he said it casually, hoping that no one would want to come along, “I’ll be back in a while.”
His lazy gait carried him the short distance to the Humvee, all the while he expected someone to dash after him to ask where he was going. Not a word. Harold must be busy. He breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the door and started the engine. He glanced at the front door of the restaurant as he pulled away. Leland stood watching him. He gave him a feeble wave and applied more pressure to the accelerator. Nice knowing you kid.
“Where’s he going?” Harold wondered out loud.
“My guess?” Leland interjected, “Back to the supply train for some food.”
“I hope he brings some back for all of us,” Harold mumbled.
“I hope he doesn’t run into those two Swans we left at camp,” Leland said. “I’m sure they’ve wiggled free by now and are searching for their buddies.”
“How many Swans are still alive? Do you have any idea?” Harold asked.
“Just the two, Witherspoon and Samuels,” Leland said.
“You know them?”
“We met.” Leland said sheepishly.
#
Chapter 35
Sheila sat in the alley across the street deep in the shadows where she could keep an eye on the restaurant while she cut a seam inside her pack with her knife. She withdrew the Black Swans’ dossier and fanned the documents like a deck of cards, looking for a number written in the margin. There it was 011-882-7777-5314. She withdrew the document and laid it on top of the pile and entered the number in the satellite phone not believing for an instant that she would get an answer, rather, she was hoping to determine whether a carrier would pick up the call. Is anybody out there?
As she suspected, no one answered, but the tone indicated that indeed there was a functioning network available to those who knew how to access it. She deposited the phone and documents in her backpack and was about to step from the shadows when Milton exited the restaurant. She remained hidden as he drove away, wondering what the old man was up to. She had taken note of the fuel gauge during their drive to the swimming pool; it registered an eighth of a tank at the time. The Hummer sucked fuel like a tornado; Milton wouldn’t get far.
#
Milton was terrified. He was a follower, not a leader. He had attempted to escape by means of his bicycle and had abandoned the mission, opting for the less strenuous activity of doing nothing while waiting to see what the others did. Now he was again treading on unfamiliar ground as his imagination ran free tempting him with irrational thoughts of successfully stealing the train and riding to...where? He had no destination in mind. He was geographically challenged and try as he might, he was unable to formulate a reasonable long term plan of action. He had always thought better behind the wheel but his mind went blank as he steered the mangled Hummer toward the maintenance shed to pack his belongings.
It wasn’t until he arrived at the shed that he remembered that his already-packed belongings were in a duffle bag abandoned forty-eight hours ago in the field near the warehouse. There was nothing of importance in his room save the almost empty box of ammo. He reloaded his Colt-45, pocketing the remaining three rounds and walked to the door, hesitating on the threshold of the dust-covered living quarters he had shared with Harold and Leland for decades.
Fond memories were few. The years had been long and hard spent pursuing Harold’s dream of becoming a water baron or some damn thing. He had to laugh. For the thousands of hours he spent building the dome over quarry, he had spent little time under it. The dark, damp confines of the covered pool frightened him. Perhaps it had something to do with fact that he couldn’t swim. A fact he admitted to no one.
It was time to pursue his own dream, ill defined though it was. He turned and exited the shed without looking back. Hell yes. It was time for a change. Time to move on. He cinched his belt, summoned his courage and took the first step into his future almost tripping over Redwing.
“Hey, what are you doing out here fella? The girls are worried about you. You should go back to town. Go that way...” Milton pointed in the direction of town as if Redwing would act on the instructions.
Redwing’s tail wagged wildly to the right as Milton pushed his rump in an effort to get him started down the road. Redwing enjoyed the game and presented his rump for another push.
“Wait a minute, dog, maybe you can help me find the gear lever.” Milton waited for Redwing to signal an answer...yeah?...no?...hell, you ain’t no bloodhound. Redwing appeared to be indifferent.
Disappointed, Milton dismissed the dog with a kick to the hindquarters. “Naw...never mind, go on, go find your girlfriends. Go on...get.”
Redwing responded with a growl and hopped backward to put some distance between he and the human, clearly confused by the sudden change in attitude. Suddenly, Redwing sensed another threat, tucked his tail between his legs and continued his retreat behind the shed.
Milton sneered, thinking that he had scared the dog away. “That’s right...get lost you freak.”
He stooped to pick up a stone, when suddenly he was attacked from behind, wrestled to the ground and disarmed by two men, Samuelson and Whithers.
“What’s up, bro,” Samuelson said as he twisted Milton’s arm almost to the breaking point, pushing his face into the gravel road-bed.
“I seen you before,” Samuelson wheezed, “You’re one of home boys, ain’t you?”
Milton tried to speak, but was unable to move his lips in the gravel. He grunted instead.
“Let him up, Sam. I have a few questions for this old man,” Whithers said.
Samuelson released his hold on Milton, allowing him to sit upright.
“You live in this shack, right?” Whithers prodded Milton with his thick finger.
Milton nodded.
“We’re looking for our squad, you seen ‘em?”
Milton spit a pebble from his mouth then slowly wiped his bleeding lips with the back of his hand while he contemplated his response. Should he tell them the truth...all your guys are dead...if so, what then? Will they kill me outright or torture me and then kill me? He shuddered at the thought.
“I haven’t seen anyone and I don’t know shit,” he said, hoping his plea of ignorance would buy him some time to think of a way out of this predicament.
“Yeah? Why you driving the Major’s rig...and...” Whithers walked around the Hummer like a prospective buyer would, inspecting it. He stopped and pointed.
“You do this?” Whithers demanded, pointing at the heavily damaged rear end.
Milton groaned, then lied, “It was like that when I found it, man. I figured, what the hell, and took it for a spin.”
“Bullshit. The Major would never let anyone drive his truck and he wouldn’t give it up without a fight...and he would have kicked your skinny ass, dude. Seriously...believe it. So let me ask you again...How come you got the Major’s Hum-Vee?”
The mention of an ass-kicking scrambled Milton’s brain. He fidgeted with a broken buttons on his shirt as he scoured his mind for a believable response but he couldn’t concentrate; the thought of the likely, impending beat-down created a dense brain-fog, he was unable to formulate a believable explanation which would absolve him of a multitude of blunders. Instead, he opted for a smattering of truths.
“I stole it, OK...you happy?”
“Stole it?” The inquisitors were astounded.
“Where you steal it from?” Samuelson demanded.
“At the old Pepsi bottling plant. I saw the Hummer...all your buddies were busy loading the train...so I took a look inside...just curious, you know...I saw the keys were in it, and bingo, here I am.”
“They were loading the train? “Whithers was suspicious. He, along with everyone in the squad had been looking forward to the arrival of the train, knowing that with it came much needed supplies and equipment. All of that should have been unloaded and transported to camp by now.
Suddenly, a grin replaced his scowl. This was the perfect distraction. It would certainly overshadow the previous night’s embarrassing altercation with person or persons unknown...an event that could cost his career but could now easily be overlooked and forgotten should they recover and return the stolen Hummer to their commanding officer. Maybe they hadn’t missed the party after all. Maybe a commendation was in order.
Whithers grabbed Milton’s nappy hair and twisted, “What were they loading?”
“Water.” Milton squealed, as tears welled in his eyes.
“Water? What water?”
“The warehouse is full of water...not like flooded...you know what I mean,” Milton cried, “bottled water.”
“Bottled water?” Samuelson was incredulous, “Where they get bottled water?”
Milton bound chance and opportunity together with a web of lies.
“Your buddies have a water bottling plant running tweny-four-seven at that warehouse. They found a mess of huge tanks full of water inside the warehouse and they are bottling it, then loading it on the train. I think they’re gonna take it to one of the Colonies...gonna’ trade it for something.”
“How you know all that?” Whithers demanded. The whole cock-eyed affair was pissing him off. He was looking for the opportunity to hit somebody, anybody.
“I overheard them talking...they were bragging about what they were going to do with all the...” Milton stammered as his mind raced through data searching for a plausible answer...”food,” he blurted, the race continued...more...something convincing...come on... “and...some heavy metals.” He took a deep breath and exhaled...waiting to see if the inquisitors bought his inspired b.s.
Samuelson and Whithers whispered to each other for a few seconds.
“How much? Did they say?”
Milton knew they were hooked.
“Thousands of pounds of government surplus food, clothing, and ammunition,” Milton said casually. “...I heard them say something about lithium, too.”
Whithers was clearly excited. Thousands of pounds of food...maybe he could return to North Carolina and spend some time with his family...bring some food...that would be impressive.
Whithers moved closer to Milton, kneeling, he whispered in Milton’s ear, “How much per person,” his deep voice was soft as greed leaked from his lips, “did they say?”
Milton rolled his eyes. “Come on man, I only caught a few words before I borrowed the Hummer and drove over here to get my gear. I’m going to get the hell out of here...not in the Hummer, though, hell no...you can have it...like I said, I just borrowed it. Nice to meet you fellas though...catch you later?” he said hopefully.
“You got that right, bro. We’re taking the Hummer. You’re gonna’ have to walk home.” Whithers let go of Milton’s hair and stood
“Catch you later, pops,” Samuelson said, punctuating the statement with a sloppy salute.
“We cool then?” Milton asked hesitantly, wanting to be absolutely sure that he was free to go.
“Fuck you,” Whithers said.
“Right back at ya, pal.” Milton whispered. He remained seated on the ground, dejected and forlorn as he watched the Hummer disappear from view and with it his fantasy of a luxurious ride to Key West. Some fine chocolate women down there. He had been struck by a peculiar epiphany in the early hours of the new day, that, like the last dart in a game of Fives, pinned Key West as his destination. He believed it came from a higher power. In truth, it came from his loins.
In the light breeze of early morning he drew the outline of a palm tree in the dirt with his index finger then deleted it with a sweep of his hand. His imagined trip in the locomotive had been derailed...unless he could get to the warehouse before the train left the station.
#
”This thing is running on fumes, Sam,” Whithers tapped on the fuel gauge with his long finger as he and Samuleson pulled into the loading dock of the Pepsi warehouse and parked. Whithers honked the horn several times, expecting an immediate response from inside the warehouse. They were surprised to be greeted by a troubling silence. The disarray before them caused them to remain inside the SUV while they attempted to sort it out. The warehouse was trashed, toppled crates, scattered debris, and scattered, smashed water bottles. So engrossed were they in the scene before them that they failed to notice the electric two-wheeler glide to a stop behind them.
“Looks like they had a party, man.”
“More like a battle, Sam, those are bullet holes over there in the wall.”
“Maybe, but we ain’t had no bullets in a long time...wasn’t our guys doing the shooting,” Whithers replied, still a bit skeptical.
“There’s a lot of damage inside the warehouse and check out the vans, man. They’re all smashed to shit...check it out, looks like a couple of them are leaking fuel...that’s real trouble, man. I’m gonna back up some, that shit could blow up any second and take us with it.”
“What a waste,” Samuels complained, still not understanding significance of what he was seeing.
“I’ll bet they broke into the booze the Major promised us and are all passed out somewhere...the bastards didn’t even let us know that they were having a party.”
#
Three yards behind the wounded Hummer, Sheila cautiously dismounted. Her primary target was the man in the driver’s seat. She was about to make her move when Whither’s started the vehicle. She had to act fast. She quickly palmed her boot knife, adjusted her sights and made her move. The Brammo’s handle-bar swung away when she released it, aligning with one of the Hummer’s rear-view mirrors.
Whithers shifted into reverse and glanced at the side mirror and closed his eyes immediately having been blinded by the sun’s reflection.
“Shit.” His exclamation fell on the dead ears of Samuels whom had practically been decapitated by Sheila’s overzealous slash to his throat.
Whither’s blinked repeatedly trying to clear his vision. He felt a warm, sticky substance spray across his face and hands as he tried to focus. He rubbed his eyes with his hands for several seconds and finally was able to focus his left eye on his blood-stained hands. He his mind raced to a conclusion. He imagined the blood belonged to he who then howled with amplified anguish until Sheila justified his angst with an enthusiastic blow to his Adam’s apple, collapsing his trachea like a paper straw. While Whithers suffocated, she wiped her knife on his t-shirt and put it away.
Immediately, a sense of relief and elation overwhelmed her. It was unexpected and confusing. She sobbed deeply and uncontrollably for several minutes, making no effort to stop the tears. They seemed to be cleansing her of the anger and resentment she had nurtured for several years. Moments ago, she had fully intended to carry her fight across the nation killing one Black Swan after another until they were all dead. And now? Suddenly the will to kill was gone. Deep in her gut, she was absolutely certain that all of the men involved in her rape were dead. The realization was troubling at first. Bloodlust, the toxic motivator from which she had drawn her strength and determination, had loosed its grip on her. Was it really over? She wondered.
She sat, using one of the Hummer’s tires as a backrest and stared at the train; her original target. Now was her chance to get away with the goods. The thought of the work required and risks involved to commandeer the train and return to Kansas exhausted her already spent body and conflicted with her i
nnate need; a companion. She needed some loving. Some touching. Some tenderness. Most of all, she needed some sleep.
She stared at the long row of railroad cars...from the looks of it most of the containers remained sealed. Her face distorted as the voices in her head argued, reason vs. impulse. Stay or leave? Steal the treasure train or share it?
Reason, for the moment, won the debate. She forced her weary body to the vertical position and saddled up, pointing the Brammo toward Faye’s flophouse.
#
Milton walked toward the exit of the maintenance shed in the grip of debilitating, relentless hopelessness. As he passed the comatose heavy equipment, he gave each one a pat on the chasis as if they would rise at his touch from a long slumber ready renew the toil.
The last to receive his blessing was the pumper truck which had been prepped, fueled and...forgotten. As Milton’s hand made contact with the cool, red metal it triggered the memory. They had dumped the remnants of all their diesel fuel containers into the truck so it would be ready in the event of a fire. He couldn’t remember how much fuel they poured in it. If the fuel gauge works...the battery...probably dead, he thought as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Come on, baby. Show me some love...” he turned the key to warm the igniters, waiting for the red indicator light to illuminate. He spit on his finger and rubbed the dirt off the gauges waiting for the led to emit a dim red. There was a chance that the old girl would start, she just needed a little TLC and a little more ummph from the battery.
He moved with learned hands replacing as many filters as he had replacements for and checking connections before adding an extra battery to the circuit. Crossing his fingers he performed the start-up routine again. This time the red indicator light glowed brilliantly. He turned the key. A few moments of anxiety was followed by an enormous belch of soot from the stack. Milton held his breath, eyes shut, allowing the carbon cloud to pass before shifting into gear. He released the clutch slowly, easing the truck laden with 1000 gallons of water into the light of day.