The Longest Road (Book 2): The Change

by Thompson, A. S.

  The cheers from Daytona's thugs meant nothing to West. If anything, he figured the hoots, hollers and racial slurs like, “Come on boss, you got this tired, old black bitch!” would up Daytona's ego, leaving him unfocused and vulnerable.

  Again, the two men circled one another. And again Daytona went in for another attack.

  It was just as West hoped for.

  West jumped back again, just as Daytona's blade sliced through his shirt, missing the skin.

  As Daytona retracted, West gave the intention of another X-type strike, but this time continued forward. He lowered his body and swept Daytona's lead leg, causing the SEAL to fall into an awkward position.

  Daytona’s body should have collapsed into the splits, but he managed to keep his lead leg in a ninety-degree angle, while his back leg slipped on the snow and extended fully. Somehow, he was able to hold onto his Bowie knife despite bracing for the fall.

  West came out of his three-hundred and sixty degree spin and knew his target before seeing it. He delivered a horizontal strike at Daytona's leg, an inch below the kneecap. The blade sliced through Daytona's black military BDU's with ease, creating a three-inch gash an eighth of an inch deep. Daytona’s Patellar tendon wasn't completely severed, but the slightest bit of pressure would cause it to separate completely.

  “Fuuuck!” Daytona screamed, howling in pain.

  As much as the injury hurt, Daytona was trained not to allow pain to interfere. He knew he was in a position of disadvantage, and worse, that West would not stop. So, he swung his blade from side to side, erratically, as to deter any impending attack.

  Unfortunately for Daytona, it was the worst thing he could have done, as it made it easier and faster for West to move into the second step: disarming.

  Using distance and the protective rubber molding of his combat shoe, West kicked at Daytona's hand. The crescent motion caught the midsection of the Bowie knife and the force drove it out of Daytona's hand. The blade slid along the dock and dropped into the cold seawater next to a dilapidated fishing boat.

  For a split second, Daytona’s eyes widened and a look of sheer panic swept over his face. He tried to scoot himself backward over the snowcapped dock, but it was no use.

  West smiled. “Gotcha.”

  The remaining events took less than one minute.

  After his opponent was immobilized and disarmed, West’s final step was to kill. So, he hopped on top of Daytona's body and went in for the final strike. In midair, he switched to a saber grip and came down on Daytona's midsection.

  As his only line of defense, Daytona sacrificed both of his hands to save his life- at least for the time being. The blade entered through the palm of Daytona's left hand and exited out of the back of his right. His stacked hands had stopped the blade from delving into his heart, but this defensive maneuver was only meant to be temporary. The only thing keeping his heart beating was counter pressure. Fortunately for him, Daytona was in peak physical condition and his large muscles enabled him to push back.

  West put the palm of his right hand on the end of the handle and pushed down with all of his weight. The distance closed to a half inch. “I told you I was going to kill you, didn't I?” West said calmly.

  Daytona didn't want to waste what little energy he had on a reply. Instead, he clenched his jaw and struggled to press back, but it was a losing battle.

  West had a far superior advantage and he used his legs to restrict Daytona from wiggling away.

  Daytona's arms shook from exhaustion. Blood seeped through the exposed wounds and pooled on his shirt.

  “Just let go,” West whispered.

  Daytona's mind entered panic mode. His eyes opened wide. His breathing grew short and fast. West's blade now lingered a quarter inch over his chest plate. He knew he was done for, so he played the only card he had left.

  “What are you waiting for?” He screamed to his men. “Kill him, damnit!”

  West hadn't forgot about the two goons behind him. He was just hoping to have killed Daytona before dealing with them. Now, it wasn't the case.

  Spend your last few seconds killing this douche bag, he thought,or live so you can find Shanna.

  “Shoot him!” Daytona screamed. His muscles were on borrowed time. “KILL HIM!”

  Before making a break for safety, West slid his right hand off the handle and used his elbow to deliver a concussive blow to Daytona's chin. He felt part of the jaw crack, and watched as two of Daytona’s lower front teeth dribbled out of his bloody mouth. Quickly, West retracted the blade, spun around and threw the knife.

  The first of the two thugs was next to the crate. The man's fingers wrapped around the synthetic grip. He turned to aim at West, but before he could squeeze the trigger, six inches of steel plowed into his throat.

  The man made a series of choking and gurgling sounds. His mouth filled with blood and his lungs gasped desperately for air it would never have. And, as a reaction to the pain, his finger pulled the trigger.

  Out of pure luck, the bullet hit the second goon in the leg, causing him to drop to the ground.

  West couldn't have hoped for a better outcome. He looked back to Daytona. The Navy SEAL was dazed, but regaining coherence. West thought about strangling the life from him, but he knew there wasn’t enough time; goon number two would reach the crate soon.

  “I'll see you again,” West promised as he rose. “And I swear I will end you.”

  It took microseconds for West to process his escape. From his position, there were two points of egress. One involved rushing past goon number two, but West knew he wouldn't make it. The man was fighting through the bullet wound and was seconds away from grabbing his gun. West's other option was to run to the end of the dock and try his luck in the near freezing Atlantic Ocean.

  Move now!

  West took off in a full sprint toward the end of the dock. He wanted to look back, but he didn't allow himself to. He pushed and pushed through the freezing temperatures and dagger-like wind. At one point, he almost slipped on the light layer of snow but quickly regained his footing and momentum.

  Almost there, West thought. The water was now fifteen feet away.

  Then, a bullet ricocheted off the metal post behind him. Three more shattered the glass windows of the boat to his left. Two more splintered the wooden boards below his feet. Still, he pressed onward.

  West was now steps from the edge and anticipated his entry into the cold waters. He was going to dive in, and post-entry, swim as deep as possible. Then, he would navigate around the right side of the dock and use the numerous boats as cover and concealment. From there, he would wait for Daytona and company to leave or steal a boat. The plan seemed to come together perfectly. All that remained was execution.

  He was so close from freedom. So close from a successful escape.

  But it wasn't meant to be.

  As West brought his hands in front in preparation for the dive, he felt a bullet enter the back of his ribcage, above his liver. He cringed momentarily, before another full metal jacketed round hit him an inch above and to the left of the first.

  The bullets caused West's body to spin around, and he took the final step before falling backward into the water. West grabbed his back, and then inhaled deeply.

  Shanna, he thought. It was his final thought as he collapsed backward into the cold.

  ***

  “Sir!” goon number two shouted. “The cops are here! We gotta go!”

  Daytona was limping toward the end of the dock, left leg supporting his entire weight. His contorted facial expression displayed the pain he fought through. His nearly severed Patellar tendon. The two holes in his hands. A cracked jaw. But the pain seemed to slowly depart when he put two rounds in West's midsection from over seventy-five out. In fact, a faint smile creased over his lips.

  “Boss! We have to get going, now!” insisted goon number two. He kept a firm hand on the bullet’s entry wound, as he looked backward toward the Wet Net. Blue and red lights flashed against
the surrounding stone buildings. “He's dead! You capped him twice. West is done. Even if he's not, he's gonna bleed out or freeze to death.”

  Daytona growled.

  He always enjoyed seeing his kills through to the end. It took everything from him not to limp to the end of the dock; to put five more rounds in West's body and one to the head- for good measure. But his associate was correct.

  The police had arrived, and despite possessing a variety of fabricated government identifications, Daytona did open fire in front of bystanders. For that, at the very least, he would be detained and questioned. So, he spat a bloody wad on the white dock. “Fine.”

  The two men turned hurried away from the crime scene, leaving their dead companion behind.

  Chapter 6

  Providence State Beach

  November 26, 2009 (present day)

  1820 hours

  As the days drew closer and closer to the Winter Solstice, they grew shorter and shorter. With the final minutes of sunlight, everyone scurried around Camp, preparing for the arrival of a new group of survivors.

  Most were anxious: curious to find out how they had survived, where they came from, and perhaps if they had a mutual friend in common from before the outbreak.

  A select few didn't share the same positive attitude. A selective few being one man; Larry MacArthur. Though, for all of his arguing and bickering, not all of his complaints were without merit.

  Inside the Ranger's station, Collin and Nick stood next to their designated "thinking spot"- the coffee pot. Blowing away the steam from a freshly brewed cup of dark roast, Collin continued with his opinions and feelings.

  “You know I can't stand the guy, but Larry is kind of right. I know we talked about it earlier, but we don't know how many people are coming tonight. Thanks to the river, we do have fresh water, but I don't think our food supplies can support even another half-dozen people. Plus, when do we tell them that we’re leaving?”

  The Native American Park Ranger was in deep thought, mentally struggling because there were no easy answers.

  “I won't allow myself to be inhuman; sending away hungry stomachs or squabbling over natural resources. But I agree we can't give what we don't have or what would kill us.” Nick took a sip, and then continued. “I started this camp with one purpose, to save as many as possible…”

  “And I would say you have done an excellent job,” Collin interrupted. “You have nothing to regret. A good man once told me that you can only do the best with the cards you've been dealt.”

  Nick didn't need to think anymore. The decision was difficult, but simple.

  “You're right. And I suppose it's not like we would be leaving them with nothing. They have perimeter safety and a steady supply of fresh water. They'll just have to make do.”

  “Exactly.”

  The discussion was temporarily put on pause after a voice came through on Collin's hand-held radio.

  “Collin, Nick. Come in, It's Steve.”

  Collin pressed the "talk" button. “Hey, Steve-O. What's up?”

  “I think our guests are close. I can't see their lights yet, but I hear some vehicles in the distance. Not sure how many, but I definitely heard some motorcycles.”

  Before allowing Collin to reply, Nick said, “I'll meet you at the gate. I am going to get on the radio and make sure they are following the right directions.”

  “Sounds good. I'll signal the others on my way out,” replied Collin. As Nick walked away, Collin depressed the radio transmit button. “Good job, Steve-O. I'm on my way,” he said, grabbing his cane.

  Minutes later, Collin met Ryan at the main entrance. “Just you and Steve on duty? You guys have a visual yet?”

  “Yes, sir, just Steve and me,” Ryan said sliding off the roof of the school bus. After landing awkwardly, Ryan answered the second question. “No, at least not for me yet.”

  Collin looked up to his cousin and whistled. “Steve, you get a visual yet?”

  Camouflaged in the scout's perch above, Steve's rifle was pointed down the road.

  “No, but they are close- wait scratch that. Here they come.”

  As Steve corrected himself, Collin peered through the chain links. Down the road, he saw a cluster of lights heading toward Camp. With Ryan's help, Collin unlocked the gate and pulled it open.

  “Hey, Collin, do you mind if I run to the bathroom?” Ryan asked. “I’d go out here, but I don’t want these people do get the wrong impression.”

  “Sure thing, but hurry back,” Collin said, backpedaling into the open area between the gate and the Ranger station.

  The first vehicle to reach the main gate was an enormous bus. Painted on the side were the words “Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department.” The appearance of more law enforcement was uplifting.

  Like a tarmac worker, Collin gave directions to the bus driver. Rolling in slowly behind the bus were two Los Angeles patrol vehicles and a dozen motorcycles; some law enforcement, some civilian.

  The combined headlights partially blinded Collin, so he signaled the newcomers to cut the lights.

  The bus was the first to comply, and then the others followed. Eerily though, no one was coming forward to claim a leadership role.

  “Hello? Who's in charge?” Collin said, taking a step forward and waiting for their representative.

  Seconds later, a young Hispanic man dressed in a sheriff's uniform stepped out from the prison transport bus. Confident in appearance, the man walked over to Collin.

  Behind him, the others got off their bikes and exited their vehicles. Some of the bikers wore matching law enforcement uniforms, others a mix of civilian clothing; regardless, their clothes bore the tell tale signs of life on the road; dirty, stained, and soiled.

  “Hello there. How ya doing?” the man said politely.

  “Doing well, glad you made it,” Collin responded.

  “Ya, and good thing,” the man started to say, “Me and my group have been on the road for months now.”

  “Welcome to our compound,” Collin said, extending his hand. “I'm Collin, good to meet you.”

  The man took off his sunglasses, revealing a nasty scar over his eye. He shook Collin’s hand and replied, “James.”

  As the introductions continued, Collin made several quick observations. At first impression, everything about James seemed off. First, his voice sounded overly formal and polite to the point that it came off fake or rehearsed; like a mocking "honky" accent. Second, James didn't appear to carry himself like a man of the law. From the way he stood, cocky and tense, not in the ingrained 60-40 defensive stance that lawmen were trained to. Next, both arms were covered in religious, cultural and personal tattoos; a few even stuck out from behind his collar. Last, he scanned James’ compatriots and noticed that there were no women to be found.

  Every man stood nervously next to their vehicles, firearms out but lowered. Everything seemed odd, but then again, life wasn't as it used to be.

  “Los Angeles Sheriff's, huh? That's quite a ways south. What's your story?”

  “Yes, sir, boss. That’s a long one, so I’ll try and keep it short. When the outbreak hit L.A., we bunkered down and did our best to ride it out. We had water and power for a while, but our supplies ran low and we knew we couldn't stay there. So, those of us that were left decided to leave and try our luck elsewhere. That was about four months ago. We have been heading north looking for a place to bunker down again. Then we heard your broadcast.”

  Collin sympathized with James. For months after the outbreak, he and his family had lived on the road. They, too, trekked great distances, driving from New York to California searching tirelessly for a safe haven. “I'm surprised you guys got it. We haven't heard from anyone in some time.”

  “I guess we were just lucky. Your place wasn't easy to find.”

  “Ya, we are tucked away and isolated. Helps keep us safe,” Collin said, emphasizing the last word. He looked down and stared at James' revolver tucked into his waistline. “Unless so
meone is on watch, we don't allow people to carry inside the compound. Another thing to keep us safe.”

  Deputy James got the hint. He could tell that Collin was uneasy, so he turned to his group and said, “Looks like we are safe in here, boys. You can put your weapons away.”

  In a display of good faith, James, too, slowly removed his gun. He tossed it to his fellow deputy who was standing in front of the bus, face hidden behind reflective sunglasses.

  James turned back to face Collin. “Sorry, old habits, you know?”

  “I know exactly what you mean. It's a dog eat dog world out there.”

  “Couldn't have said it better myself,” James replied, unable to hold back a smile.

  ***

  Ranger Nick powered off the broadcast equipment and then closed the Com-room door behind him. He took one last gulp of coffee, and then set the mug in the sink.

  I’ll clean it later, he thought, knowing that he was already late meeting Collin and the newcomers.

  Inside the station, Betty Galliger stood next to the door, watching Collin shake someone’s hand.

  “Excited for our new guests, Betty?” Nick asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

  Oddly, Betty didn't reply, so Nick asked again. Still, the woman's eyes were glued to the window.

  The Native American was excellent at reading people. He could tell something was wrong. “Betty, what's the matter?”

  It took a second for Betty to come around, but when she started she didn't stop. For the next few minutes, Betty explained what was bothering her.

  Nick's expression changed from that of a sincere listener to a concerned citizen. “How do you know? How can you be so sure?”

  “Believe me, I was a stay at home mom. A TV is our best friend. Some women watched soap operas, but I watched the news. Believe me I am ninety-nine point nine percent positive that is him.”

  “Okay, I believe you. Now I need you to do exactly what I tell you...”

  ***