Concealed from view, they made a small fire, using a long spit to cook the rabbit. Before long, the smell made his mouth water. But in spite of his overactive salivary glands, Dale couldn’t help being worried.
The boy read the concern on his face. “Something is weighing on you?” he asked.
“More than you know,” Dale replied. “There are lots of folks back home right now who probably think I’m dead. I worry about their safety. I also worry about Javier and what the Brigade might do to him if they suspect you were helping me.”
“The hate that my grandfather has for the cartel runs deep,” the boy said, flicking away a fly buzzing around his head. “There was a time the old folks still remember when life was good. Before the drugs came and the wars and the corruption.”
“I know a thing or two about that,” Dale agreed.
“My people have been suffering for a long time, Mr. Dale. We are taxed by the government and then once again by the cartel. Many do not have enough to eat. They’re scared to go outside. For a while at least the army stood up and fought against the drug dealers. They had to be careful not to show their faces, fearing retribution against their families. Several were killed on both sides and still the fighting continued. It was only after the virus that things started to change.”
“How so?” Dale asked.
Carlos turned the animal over, fat crackling in the fire. “Much like your town, we lost our president and many other good men just like him. In his place came a man named Lopez. He was a member of the ultra-nationalistic front determined to reclaim Mexican pride.”
“From the cartel?”
“No, from the USA,” Carlos said. “They say the territory of our country was stolen and they intend to get it back.”
“That was a hundred and seventy years ago,” Dale said. “After a war between our two countries.” Fifteen years before the Civil War, a long-brewing war with Mexico had ended with a victory for the United States and the annexation of much of what we know today as the American Southwest.
“Believe me, few of us understand it or agree,” Carlos said. “We thought our country already had enough problems. We also thought that after the virus such foolish dreams would fade into the background. But if anything they were magnified.”
Dale laughed at how absurd humans could be. At a time when people should be most focused on improving the situation, the Mexican president was harboring grudges nearly two centuries old. But wasn’t failure to see the bigger picture something they were all guilty of from time to time? Dale couldn’t help but contemplate his own dire predicament, much of it fueled by his own stubborn insistence on protecting what he felt rightfully belonged to him.
Carlos inspected the rabbit. “Almost done,” he said.
“I guess what I don’t understand is why the war with the cartels isn’t still raging.”
“Lopez’s first daughter is married to Edwardo Ortega. The two families were united, you see. Now they work together. The goal is to take back the land and for the cartel to administer it.”
Dale shook his head. This was so much worse than he had ever imagined. It was one thing to be fighting against a ruthless drug lord, but another entirely when that drug lord was being supported by the remnants of a foreign government. All the more reason he needed to get home as soon as possible. This wasn’t only about Encendido anymore, it was about the entire country.
“Is there any way to get us to the border any faster?” Dale asked.
“The only way would be to find a vehicle, but you saw the patrol earlier. That will put you on the road and into danger.”
Dale eyed the low mountain range to the north. A whinny from Alberto drew his gaze and sparked an idea. “Are there any ranches around here?”
Carlos nodded. “Maybe one or two, why?”
“As much as I appreciate Alberto’s help, outfitting ourselves with a couple of horses might cut a full day off our journey.”
“That may be so, Mr. Dale, but it may prove difficult convincing anyone to hand them over. Most of the big land owners have sided with the cartel.”
“I have a feeling I may be able to persuade them.”
Chapter 16
Brooke
The mission given to Brooke and Caleb by Nobel was straightforward enough, but by no means easy. The weapons and ammo from the gun shop Nobel had owned with her husband Bob Meeks had been divided into four equal parts. The part she kept in a small room in the college’s subbasement had more than likely already been compromised. The remaining three were buried in key locations along the edges of town. Nobel had informed them that most of these locations were in fields in sparsely populated areas. Although this meant the chances of being spotted were far lower, they would still need to be on their guard.
Their first task was to procure a vehicle. From there they would follow the verbal directions they’d memorized in order to locate the first cache site. Once it was identified, they were to dig up the contents, divide the items into smaller bundles and rebury them.
Resistance members needed to blend in with the local civilian population. That meant the uniforms they’d donned earlier had been replaced with regular clothes. Now that the Brigade was in town, carrying weapons into a clandestine operation posed a far greater risk. At cartel and Brigade checkpoints along key routes, the enemy would surely be looking for weapons and explosives. Freedom fighters needed to be clean and beyond suspicion. So too after an operation was carried out. That was why several small caches around town made more sense. The weapons and ammo could be redeposited, hands and clothing could be cleaned with wipes to remove any traces of gunpowder and the agent could make it back in one piece.
A typical cache was a complicated affair. Weapons needed to be cleaned, slathered in gun-packing grease and wrapped in wax butcher paper. Some opted to wrap it in plastic, but this was a mistake since plastic tended to sweat and water had a nasty habit of forming rust. Even polymer Glocks had internal metal components that were vulnerable to rust.
The contents could then be placed in a length of PVC pipe with a ten-inch opening and sealed with end caps on either side. To keep out water, the caps could also be sealed with a calking gun. This represented a fairly standard setup for longer-term weapons storage. The challenge the resistance faced was that these weapons would need to be ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Taking the time to clean off thick packing grease simply wasn’t an option.
Earlier in the day, another team had scavenged local hardware stores and shops for the PVC pipes and caps they would need. A few had even scavenged them from buildings next to the landfill, sawing out lengths of plastic pipe which had once housed flowing water. Those days were long gone, but at least some of those relics from the good old days could still be put to use.
Brooke and Caleb were in a 2000 Subaru Legacy they’d acquired from one of the secondary safehouses around town. They were heading south along Buffalo Soldier Trail. Nobel had instructed her to look for a particularly tall cypress tree, that she would know it when she saw it. The streets in this part of town were empty. On their left was a trailer park, lined with rows of mobile homes. To their right were fields of desert scrubland stretching all the way to the Huachuca mountain range.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Brooke scanned the side of the road, searching for the elusive tree.
“I think I see it,” she called out, pointing ahead of her.
Caleb slowed and pulled onto Cherokee Avenue. He stopped by the curb and got out. Standing at the edge of a large depression was the unusually tall cypress tree Nobel had told them about. Seeing it made Brooke think of Christmases back when her mother was still alive, the magic of waking up to find gifts awaiting her under the tree. She blinked with the realization that a different kind of gift was awaiting her here.
The two of them crossed the street. Although the sun hung low over the mountain range, it wasn’t dark quite yet. Brooke drew in the fresh scent of the tree as they approached. Following Nobel’s instructi
ons, she inspected the base and found an area where the letter v wrapped in a circle had been carved. This was the symbol for Nobel’s movement and a sign they were at the right spot. More of Nobel’s words played out in her mind.
Take twenty paces west to a flat rock.
“This way,” she told Caleb, counting her steps as they descended into the natural depression. The lower ground was a good thing, since it meant any cars passing by wouldn’t see what they were up to. At the base of the slope Brooke spotted the flat stone. With a grunt, she flipped it over. On the bottom was the same symbol.
“This is it,” she said, setting the stone back down.
Caleb bit into the tightly packed dirt with the edge of his shovel. Looking at the discoloration of the baked soil, it was suddenly obvious that something was buried here. But to anyone not looking for it, the cache might have remained undetected for hundreds of years. The thought reminded her of an article she’d once read about a Remington lever-action rifle found lying against a large rock in the desert. Seemed the weapon’s owner had set it down, perhaps to relieve himself, and had never picked it back up. So there it had sat, rusting and baking in the elements for a hundred and fifty years, waiting to be found.
“Got it,” Caleb said as the end of his shovel clanked against something hard.
With some difficulty, they removed the wooden crate and brought it to the Subaru. Before closing the car hatch, Caleb opened the crate, peering inside at the neatly stacked rifles and pistols. He removed an S&W 9mm, popping out the magazine to find that it was already full.
She regarded him apprehensively. They weren’t supposed to take or tamper with any of the weapons.
Dimples formed on his cheeks as he smiled. “Insurance,” he said, sliding the weapon into his waistband.
From there, they drove across the street into the trailer park. This was where they would divide the weapons into several smaller caches. They parked next to a slate-gray doublewide. This was another of the secondary safehouses in Encendido. Nobel was confident that although the tier one locations had been compromised, the tier twos were still secure. Her logic had been proven earlier when Brooke and Caleb had found the Subaru. They hoped the same would hold true now.
Caleb removed the pistol he had taken from the crate as they exited the car. The trailer exhibited no signs of forced entry, which was a good start. They removed the key taped on the underside of the staircase and let themselves in. A quick and thorough search revealed they were alone.
After lugging the crate and PVC piping into the house, the two of them got to work. It was important to divide the weapons carefully. Three assault rifles and about the same number of pistols would go in each mini-cache, along with ammo, hand wipes and extra magazines.
With the shades drawn, they were in the middle of filling the first pipe when they heard feet clomping up the short stairway followed by a knock at the door.
They looked at each other. Brooke’s chest tightened with anxiety.
Caleb went to one of the front windows and peeked through the narrow space between glass and curtain.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
He leaned against the wall for a better look. “It’s a man. Mid-thirties. Dirty clothes. I’ve never seen him before.”
Another knock.
“We can’t exactly pretend we’re not here,” she said, keeping her voice quiet. “I mean, our car’s out front.”
Brooke ran to the bedroom, snatched a blanket off the bed and threw it over the work they were doing. Caleb switched his pistol to his other hand and went to the door, opening it a crack.
“How can I help you?” he asked, smiling.
“We just saw your car pull up,” the man said. He was thin and wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a Metallica t-shirt. “Didn’t frankly know anyone lived here. Figured they’d run off or died like nearly everyone else.” Wisps of messy, thinning hair floated into his face and he pushed it back with the palm of his hand. “Name’s Brett,” he said. “I was wondering if you folks had something to eat?”
“Sorry, we can’t help you,” Caleb said sharply, about to end the conversation. He had the pistol resting against the inside of the door. Brooke spotted the mistake at once. If Brett turned out to be a psycho and kicked the door in, the pistol might go flying. She walked up behind Caleb and eased it out of his hand, holding it in her own.
“I ain’t asking,” Brett said, visibly hurt, but trying to smile nonetheless. “I’m offering.”
“Oh,” Caleb replied, surprised and maybe even a little stunned. It was far more common these days to hear folks begging rather than offering to share.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Brett told them. “We ain’t got much, but in our little community we’ve done our best to make sure no one goes to bed on an empty belly.”
Caleb opened the door a little wider. “How many of you are there?”
“About six families. Couple dozen of us in all, I suppose. Those cartel boys come around once in a while, shoot the place up. Usually don’t leave until someone’s been hurt, sometimes killed. We think they do it mostly for sport since we ain’t got nothing they want.”
“Not even your food?” Brooke said.
“Like I said, we ain’t got much.” Brett pointed toward the open ground and the mountains beyond. “Every morning a few of us head off searching for wild game. There’s a shallow well on the grounds too, but the water needs to be boiled before anyone can drink it. Makes staying hydrated mighty hard on hot days.” He motioned to a group of trailers fifty yards away. “How about when you’re done here, you two head on over and join us? Can’t promise it’ll be fancy like that Gordon Ramsay dude who used to play on TV, but it’s warm and will keep you kicking one more day.”
Caleb and Brooke thanked Brett and watched as he eased down the steps and walked away.
Brooke had tears in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Caleb asked, as confused as most men are when faced with a crying woman. He was assuming there was something he had missed.
It was Brett’s charity in spite of his own desperation that had touched her the most. Needless to say, she hoped that one day soon the cartel would be thrown out, maybe even destroyed. Until then, she couldn’t suppress a strong sense of duty to ease the suffering of those around her.
They had a backpack in the Subaru, filled with filtered water in plastic bottles and canned goods: tuna, beans and green vegetables. Brooke went to the car and removed two bottles of water and two cans of tuna from the bag for her and Caleb before closing the door.
“What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing the knapsack she was holding.
“Something I should have done a long time ago,” she said, her eyes glassy, her legs already leading her toward Brett and the others.
Chapter 17
Dale
The following morning, Dale awoke to find Carlos fastening pieces of cloth to the tops of his boots. When he was done, he shuffled off through the low brush, circling the camp before heading back.
“Have you lost your mind?” Dale asked.
Carlos laughed, revealing a set of mostly white teeth. After removing the cloths, one at a time, he held them over a pot and wrung out a decent amount of water. He was collecting morning dew.
Ingenious, Dale thought, raising himself onto his elbow with a noticeable wince of pain. But his abdomen wasn’t the only thing aching. He’d read once about monks who slept on cold stone floors. Last night he had done the next best thing and had the kink in his spine to prove it.
Dale rose to his feet and stretched as Carlos carried out his dew collection two more times. When he was finished, the boy removed the plastic bag from the branches and added that as well. By then the pot was half full. Dale continued to be more and more impressed. Without a doubt, he was taking solid mental notes on Carlos’ techniques on finding water in the desert.
After finishing off what remained of the rabbit and refilling their canteens, both men struck camp and set off
for the ranch. Carlos told him it could be found a few miles north, which was good since they were heading in that direction anyway.
At one point, his companion stopped, dropping to one knee. He picked up a nearby stick and poked at something on the dry desert floor.
“What’d you find?” Dale asked from atop Alberto’s back.
“Coyote tracks,” the boy said, alarmed.
“That isn’t such a big problem.”
Carlos glanced up at him, blocking the sun with his hand. “Maybe not when there is one or two of them.” Carlos pointed toward several pieces of coyote scat.
“How many you figure?”
Shaking his head, the boy said, “Many.”
It seemed that once the number of humans was thinned out, other animal populations had been allowed to explode. A single coyote was not a threat. However, a pack of twelve or more could easily take down a grown man, leaving behind little more than a pile of sun-bleached bones.
“Stay vigilant,” Carlos warned him. “They may be close.”
With a pistol on his hip and an assault rifle slung over his back, Dale wasn’t worried about a pack of dogs. In fact, he wasn’t even worried about an angry Mexican rancher. As soon as Carlos had mentioned these large landowners were in cahoots with the cartel, commandeering their property went from a sin to something of a moral obligation.
They travelled for another hour before Carlos stopped and pointed to a rise in the earth. “The ranch is right over that ridge,” he told Dale.
With renewed enthusiasm, they moved onto higher ground, watching as a small collection of single-story buildings came into view. The wind grew stronger, kicking up tiny dust devils. Dale covered his eyes and looked away. Searching to his right, he observed a country road leading from the highway toward the ranch, little more than a dot in a cruel and unforgiving landscape. A few feet from the house was the stable.
Defiance: Judgment Day (The Defending Home Series Book 3) Page 9