Defiance: Judgment Day (The Defending Home Series Book 3)

by William H. Weber

  Dale

  The sound of screaming yanked Dale from his sleep. It was nighttime and he’d been dreaming about his daughter. She was making her way through Encendido, doing her best to avoid the cartel. Terrified and racked with hunger, she was calling out to him, asking why he had let this happen.

  Through the darkness of night, he searched his surroundings for any sign of where he might be.

  The last he remembered was walking along Highway 2 on a fifty-mile mission to reach the US-Mexican border.

  Dale shifted and was immediately struck by several things at once. The first was a jolting bout of pain that fired from the hole in his belly, a wound which had been miraculously cleaned and re-bandaged. The second was the straw bed he now found himself in. A figure cloaked in shadow sat by the low doorway. Outside an old man sat by a fire cooking meat on a stick. Beyond that, a mule tied to a tree whinnied loudly. That explained the screaming that had woken him up.

  Dale’s fingers searched his face and found bandages where the Ventriloquist’s scalpel had sliced his flesh.

  “Who are you?” Dale asked, trying to sit up, but stopping when the pain got too bad.

  “Don’t try to speak,” the young man said, leaning into the flickering light. His silhouette danced on the dirt floor of the tiny hut. He sounded young, a boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen.

  Dale’s eyes traced over to a chair near his bedside where his clothes and weapons had been placed.

  “Save your energy, Mr. American. We’ll speak tomorrow after you’ve rested.”

  If these people wanted him dead, they’d already had every opportunity to do it. The lids of Dale’s eyes grew heavy. He settled his head back into the straw pillow and fell back asleep, returning to a nightmare not nearly as frightening as the one he was currently living.

  When his eyes opened again, the sun had vanished along with the desert heat. Carefully, he maneuvered his legs off the bed and onto the cool, dusty ground.

  He found the boy and the old man sitting by a small fire, heating a pot of coffee over an improvised grill.

  “Thirsty?” the boy asked, smiling, the hint of delicate red rings around his eyes.

  Dale nodded, confused. “You speak English?”

  “Of course,” the boy replied with a noticeable accent. “I know lots of English. Kim Kardashian… Hollywood blockbusters… Big Mac with cheese.”

  Dale sat on the stump of a tree and rubbed at the corners of his eyes. How was he supposed to explain what a poor ambassador for America those were?

  The boy handed him a stained mug. “Coffee?”

  Dale felt his entire being begin to tingle. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  The boy used a pot holder to remove the coffee pot and poured some into Dale’s mug. Tiny granules floated on the surface. Dale sipped at the coffee, his expression changing at once.

  “Not bad.”

  Grinning, the boy held up a bag of Folgers crystals. Not exactly what Dale had been expecting.

  The old man regarded him suspiciously. His crooked spine meant he was always leaning forward, as though fetching some item off the ground. Skin darkened from long periods in the sun only accentuated the deep grooves on his face. When the old man said something to the boy in Spanish, it became clear the few teeth he had left were black and crooked.

  “He doesn’t trust you,” the boy said.

  Dale thought about the guns he had been carrying and the wound to his belly. “Can’t say I blame him.” He held out his rough hand. “Dale Hardy. I don’t mean any harm. I’m only passing through on my way back home.”

  With some reluctance, the boy took his hand and shook. “My name is Carlos Garza. This is my grandfather Javier.” He motioned over his shoulder to the mule. “And that’s Alberto.”

  Dale couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s a pleasure to meet all three of you. I should also thank you for…” He motioned off into the distance with his hand. “Everything you’ve done for me.”

  The boy didn’t respond, but instead produced a small tin, peeling back the lid. Inside was a half-eaten carcass of whatever the grandfather had been cooking over the fire last night. The old man, Javier, brought cupped fingers to his lips.

  “Please,” Carlos said, nodding. “Please.”

  They wanted him to eat. Dale set his coffee down and reached into the tin, tearing off a small chunk of meat from the leg. At first he thought it was possum, but upon closer inspection he saw it was a cottontail. The grumbling in his stomach quieted as he ate. It wasn’t much, but he was thankful for every bite. Carlos then offered him slices of barrel cactus pulp.

  “You suck the juice,” the boy instructed. “You can also eat it.”

  “Have you always lived here?” Dale asked, working the fibery pulp between his teeth. He was referring to this hut in the middle of the desert.

  “Not always,” Carlos said. “Before the sickness, we lived in Cananea, with my mother and father. After the people began to die, we stayed home. No more work. No more school. Once the people got better, the Asesinos arrived.”

  Dale perked up. He was talking about the Brigade. “You know them?”

  Carlos nodded. “Oh, yes, when they come they take anything they want. Food from our mouths, water from our wells, even people. They leave us with nothing. When we found you along the road, my grandfather believed you were one of them. He said I should leave you to die. I told him the Asesinos would never be out here with no truck. We put you on Alberto’s back. He carried you here.”

  Dale eyed the mule, who was nibbling at stalks of dried grass. “What you call the Asesinos, we call the Brigade. They work for the cartel, which has taken over our town.”

  Carlos listened, a thoughtful expression on his young face before moving his arms in a wide arc. “They rule all of this.”

  If Encendido was anything to go by, the cartel was definitely working hard to expand the scope of their holdings.

  “That’s why I need to get home,” Dale explained. “Keep my family and my town―”

  The old man said something in Spanish.

  “You need rest.” Carlos cut him off, patting his belly. Dale knew well enough the kid wasn’t talking about needing a good meal. He was talking about making sure Dale’s gut didn’t get infected. Wasn’t like in the old days when you could pop into any old pharmacy for a prescription. Without fully realizing it, they had crept back into the Dark Ages, where life expectancy was a fraction of what it used to be in the civilized world. Welcome to the new America, where you were lucky to reach forty.

  Dale stood and was about to press his point when the boy cocked his head to the side. He rose and ran to a gnarled juniper.

  “Policia, policia,” he shouted, pushing the air with his hand. Two Mexican police vehicles were approaching from the west. For plenty of reasons, Dale and cops didn’t seem to mix well these days. He shuffled into the hut to get his pistol and the FX-05. When he turned around, the old man was standing in the doorway, shaking his head.

  Motioning to the bed, Javier shouted in Spanish. “Escondate. Escondate.”

  He wanted Dale to climb underneath the straw mattress. This was a decision Dale needed to make fast. Should he face the cops, guns blazing? Or could he trust Carlos and Javier not to hand him over to the local Mexican police?

  Chapter 12

  Pistol and assault rifle in hand, Dale chose door number two and slid underneath the bed. Even with the collapsible stock, the FX-05 was too long for him to use effectively should the ruse be discovered, which was why he’d opted for the pistol. The bed was little more than lengths of rope, strung from a wooden frame in a series of vertical and horizontal rows. What they called a mattress was really a fabric envelope stuffed with straw. To prevent his feet from poking out the end, Dale pulled them close to his chest. Had he been here on his own, more than likely he would have opted to engage the Mexican police and take his chances. But risking two innocent lives had made him reconsider. A month ago, there wouldn’t have be
en any debate, but after seeing what had happened to Colton, Dale was beginning to wonder if his daughter Brooke’s thoughtful nature was starting to rub off on him.

  That thought was still knocking around in his head when Javier rolled onto the bed and pulled the covers up to his neck.

  What the hell is that old man doing? Dale thought, the straw mattress pressing down against his face.

  Two vehicles came to a stop not far from the hut and four men got out. Dale caught the sound of Carlos speaking to them in Spanish. Although he missed most of what they were saying, he understood enough to know the boy was talking about his grandfather.

  Kid, don’t bring them inside, Dale admonished the boy with all the telepathic powers he could muster. But to no avail. Four sets of heavy boots entered the hut, one at a time, each of them examining a different corner.

  Dale caught the word ‘gringo’ and wondered if they were talking about him. With his pistol gripped firmly in both hands, the first curious cop who peeked under the bed would get a lethal surprise in his fat face.

  The boy was with them in the room, standing by his grandfather’s bedside. Dale understood that having both of his new friends nearby was a good sign. Had they intended on turning him in, they could just as easily have stood back and let these corrupt officers do the rest.

  Then Dale heard them speak a word that sounded a lot like ‘flu.’ The police took a noticeable step back, their voices rising in fear. It suddenly became clear, the kid had told them his grandfather was dying from H3N3. It didn’t matter that the disease had burned itself out more than a month ago. These low-level thugs in police uniforms weren’t willing to risk their lives, not for this. In a great hurry, all four of them backed out of the hut and returned to their trucks.

  Dale listened to the engines start and the vehicles pull away. Had it been a single deputy, maybe even two, he would have shot them dead and taken their truck. But while getting the jump on two armed men was doable, four was simply foolish. Like Carlos said, in a Hollywood blockbuster maybe things would have been different. If there was something Dale had learned following the deaths of his parents and then his wife, it was that happily ever after was the exception rather than the rule.

  With the police gone, the old man rose from the bed, allowing Dale to shimmy out.

  Carlos came stood by the doorway, beads of nervous sweat dotting his brow.

  “Close call,” he said.

  “You’re not kidding,” Dale replied, setting his rifle on the bed and his pistol in the seat of his pants. “Who knows how long it’ll be before more come knocking. Either way, I don’t intend to find out.”

  “You’re going back to America?” Carlos asked, his eyes alight as though he were speaking of some magical kingdom. Little did the boy know, what passed for the United States these days was about the same as this side of the border. Whatever edge America had possessed before the swine flu was not much more than a memory.

  “I’m heading back as quickly as I can,” Dale said. He gathered his things and headed past the fire pit, pausing when a bolt of pain fired through his abdomen. He gritted his teeth. “If I shadow the main highway, I should be home in two to three days.”

  “You will die, Mr. Dale,” Carlos pleaded, the Mr. part sounding more like ‘mistor.’ “No food, no water, I promise, you will die.”

  Dale shook his head, suddenly feeling like maybe he should have taken his chances against those four cops, suicide mission or not.

  “Unless you have a truck I can use, I can’t waste any more time standing around arguing.”

  “I will take you,” Carlos said. “I know a way that is much faster.”

  “You know a shortcut?” Dale asked, feeling a rush of hope and excitement.

  Carlos laughed, revealing a bright, youthful smile. “Yes, a good shortcut.”

  Dale jostled his finger between the two of them. “Just you and I? What about your grandfather?”

  “He will stay. Only three of us will go.”

  The boy’s English comment left him confused. “I don’t understand. Who’s the third?”

  As if on cue, Alberto the mule whinnied and reared his head.

  Chapter 13

  Sandy

  The Encendido waste management center was exactly five miles south of the community college and nestled into the end of a deserted gravel road which bore the rather ironic name of Garden Canyon. The landfill itself made up most of the acreage on the site, but perched right next door was a collection of buildings, known in garbage lingo as transfer stations. One of those buildings was a high-ceilinged warehouse reserved for recycled material. Inside, a narrow staircase led to a cluster of small offices where employees once worked out the logistical challenges of keeping the town’s streets clean and garbage-free. It was also the least foul-smelling of the lot and as a result had become Nobel’s new, albeit temporary, headquarters.

  After a narrow escape through the trapdoor in the college basement, they had shimmied along a claustrophobic utility passage for nearly a hundred meters before emerging along the west side of the college grounds. From there they’d headed south, using the surrounding homes as cover.

  With the sun already low in the sky, Keith had been patrolling the area, hunting for escapees. He had been about to give up when he’d spotted them.

  His first bit of good news was that he and Randy had freed Brooke and Caleb from a unit of Brigade torturers. And that they were someplace safe lying low while they waited for him to retrieve them. After recovering from the shock of learning that Sheriff Gaines had switched his allegiance, Sandy had asked about Dale. Unfortunately, Keith’s answer had done nothing to ease her fears. Rumors were, he told them, that the Brigade’s own commander, a man named Captain Lee, had whisked him across the border into Mexico. Apart from that there was no other news.

  All in all, eleven had managed to flee from that part of the college: Nobel, Sandy, Walter, Ann, Betty, Tyrell and Tahoma, along with four other resistance members. They were far too numerous for a single trip and so Keith had shuttled them to the landfill in small groups. Along the way, Sandy had asked about Zach and the bikers who had fought to repel Fernando’s crack troops, but again, Keith had nothing to tell her. Later that night, she dozed off slumped in a chair in one of the recycling center offices, her legs stretched out and numb from the weird angle. She prayed that when she opened her eyes she would discover all of this had been nothing but a terrible dream.

  Sandy came awake at first light to a stiff back and acute disappointment. This hadn’t been a dream. But a ray of hope shone through when Keith returned with Brooke and Caleb, both of them plugging their noses to block out the stench. Others were stirring awake as they ascended the staircase. Sandy cried out and threw her arms around them.

  They hugged for a while and the hug turned to tears. It was as though seeing one another had released the horror of everything that had happened.

  Sandy used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her eyes. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.” Somehow, knowing Brooke was alive and well gave her hope that the same might be true of Dale.

  Brooke felt likewise, telling Sandy about their escape and night spent hiding at the bus depot. When she was done, she drew in a reluctant breath. “Geez, this place really stinks. Couldn’t you have found an empty spa or candle shop or something?”

  Sandy laughed. “I think that’s part of the point. Nobel figured this would be the last place Fernando’s men would come looking for us.”

  “I sure hope so.” Brooke pulled her hands into the sleeves of her stained Arizona State sweatshirt. “So what are we supposed to do now? I mean, we have no home. Fernando’s personal army has gutted the resistance.” Her eyes threatened to well up with fresh tears until Caleb moved in and put an arm around her. The gesture of intimacy wasn’t lost on Sandy.

  Nobel appeared and welcomed both Brooke and Caleb. After the greetings were done, she asked Tyrell to assemble the others. It was time they took stock of where th
ey were and how to turn their grim situation around.

  With the arrival of Brooke and Caleb, they were now thirteen, including Keith. As the meeting commenced, one of Zach’s Rangers and another resistance member remained outside on watch.

  Nobel stood before them, poised as always, her back straight, her features set. “We’ve been knocked down,” she told them. “There’s no sugarcoating it. At the college we had modest sources of food and water. We had enough weapons and followers to drive the enemy from Encendido and back across the border where they came from. Now we’re greatly diminished. We stand here, our clothes torn, many of us bloody, facing an enemy that looks unbeatable. I won’t lie. The odds are against us. But this isn’t the first time we as Americans have faced an uphill battle. We faced it when our forefathers dared to defy the will of the mighty British Empire. We faced it as an under-armed nation who stood up against Hitler’s dreams of a thousand-year Reich. Our countrymen and countrywomen have a long history of staring down long odds and never blinking, never standing down and never admitting defeat. It is this spirit we must never forget. Because it is this spirit which will give us the strength we need, now in our darkest hour.”

  They were hardly more than a dozen, but it felt to each of them as though they were a crowd of thousands. Chills raced up Brooke’s back, as they did with many of the others. They were bearing witness to a great moment. They were bearing witness to history.

  “What should we do?” Tahoma asked.

  Nobel turned to him. “First, we must take stock of what we have. Then we take stock of what we need.”

  “What about food and water?” Sandy asked, always the pragmatist.

  “We’ll need to rely on the kindness of the local townsfolk,” she replied. “They can’t expect to hunker down avoiding danger while we face the peril alone. We also can’t risk a repeat of what happened yesterday. Willingly or not, someone told the enemy exactly where to find us. From now on, this base camp will house the minimum number of personnel. Until we can face them directly, we’ll also need to find ingenious ways to hide should they show up. We’ll need to recruit new members and set up new safehouses. The resistance can never again find itself vulnerable to being stamped out in a single attack. We’ll be everywhere and nowhere.”