Legion of Despair: Book Three in The Borrowed World Series

by Horton, Franklin

  “You probably already know how your situation is going to end anyway, don’t you?”

  Gary hesitated. “Probably.”

  “Then why plant a seed in a cop’s head? If some worried old lady shows up at the police station next week complaining about her missing lowlife son, do you want the cops to remember the guy who was down there asking for help? No, you don’t. You don’t want the cops to have any fucking idea what happened to said lowlife. Just keep yourself off their radar. That’s the best advice I can give you.”

  “You might be right,” Gary said.

  “I am right,” the man replied with certainty. “I used to be a cop. I know how cops think.”

  Though Gary briefly wondered why the man wasn’t a cop anymore, it wasn’t any of his business. “By the way, what’s your name?” he asked. “If you get stuck up here, we could always use someone who knows their way around a weapon.”

  “Esposito,” the man replied. “Steve Esposito. And I hope like all hell that I don’t get stuck here.”

  “Well, I’m Gary. Good luck,” Gary said. “I hope you don’t either.”

  “Good luck to you too, buddy,” Steve said.

  Gary’s feet felt heavier as he walked back across the parking lot, stepped through weeds and a small ditch, and rejoined the road. In the short walk back to the road, he’d realized that the security guard was absolutely right about his problem. If one of those guys on the dirt bikes went missing, there were probably dozens of people with reasons to make that happen. Unless there were witnesses, it might be hard for anyone to narrow down who killed anyone.

  He turned left, away from town, and began his walk home. He would have to handle this himself.

  *

  When Gary, Jim, and Randi had parted ways a few days ago, they had made plans to reconnect by radio at a particular time to make sure everyone made it home safely. Gary’s plan had been for everyone to go to a high hilltop near each of their homes and make contact using the good VHF radios they’d taken from the ranger station at Mount Rogers. Gary thought that in a pinch he could probably radio Jim without leaving home. He needed to talk to Jim and see what he thought about his situation, from the lack of security to the lack of any water source.

  The high point that Gary had chosen was on Kent’s Ridge. It was a hilltop that had a line of sight connection to the valley where Jim lived, which was about twelve miles away as the crow flies. Neither of them had been sure if Randi would be able to connect with them, since she lived in a more mountainous area that could be walled in by rocky ridges, possibly preventing her from getting a signal out.

  After a quick dinner, Gary grabbed the same pack he’d carried to town and slung it over his back. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said. “You all keep an eye on things and be careful. I’ll radio you before I come through the gate. I’ll also pop a green glow stick and hang it off me, in case I can’t get you on the radio. If you see green, don’t shoot. I don’t want to be shot by accident.”

  His family hugged him and swarmed him with goodbyes. He’d not been home long enough for them to forget what it was like for him to be gone and to not know his fate. The constant worry, the fear that he might not make it home was still fresh. Earlier, planning on a walk to the police station, Gary had not taken a rifle with him for fear of drawing the wrong kind of attention. This time, part of his journey would be on the road and part of it would be through the woods. He would carry the same Glock .40 caliber pistol that had gotten him home, and he would also carry his AR. With the stock retracted, most of the weapon could be hidden in the backpack. If he tossed a jacket over the exposed end, it would be concealed, although not very discreetly. There were times that he wished he’d bought an AR or AK pistol for ease of concealment, but he’d never done it. This was one of the times he wished he had.

  It took two hours of strenuous walking to reach the location that he was going to radio from. It was on a large cattle farm with thousands of acres, not on his property. He’d accessed it through a circuitous route that he hoped had allowed him to come in unseen. When he finally got out his radio and established contact, it was a relief to hear Jim’s and Randi’s voices and know that those two had made it home. Neither of them went into much detail about how the last day of their journey had gone, and Gary was certain there were dozens of stories beneath the surface of their words. Perhaps he would hear them one day.

  When Jim asked him how things were at his home, Gary hesitated. While his plan had been only to infer that he was having some doubts about his location and may need to consider moving, the idea of vague allusions went completely out the window. Too much had gone on between them for him not to be honest. He ended up spilling the whole story: the trouble with the masked visitors, his concerns about being able to adequately guard his property, his concerns that his entire plan of being able to bug-in was flawed, and that they may have to bug-out after all.

  “There are some empty houses around me, Gary,” Jim said. “I think I could talk to the relatives of the people who owned them and see if we might be able to borrow some for a while. I don’t think I’d have any problem finding someone willing to do that. At least the house would be looked after while you were living there.”

  “That might be a good idea,” Gary agreed. “I’ll need some time to talk to my family, though. I’m not sure this is going to be an easy sell.”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” Jim agreed. “Remind them that it’s temporary.”

  “How about we agree to meet up here on the radio in forty-eight hours?” Gary asked.

  “Not a problem,” Jim said. “I’ll be here.”

  Randi finalized her arrangements to come check on Jim’s mother, who’d been pretty sick, and then they all signed off.

  Gary had a lot to think about. His family would not be happy about leaving the homes they’d worked so hard to build. While he wasn’t happy about that either, he wanted security for his family beyond all things. He continued to beat himself up over his lack of attention to some critical details. The water issue was going to wear on them if the power remained off, as he fully expected it would. Security at his house could possibly be worked out. He could contact some people he knew in town and offer to let them move into his daughters’ homes in exchange for helping guard the property, but still there would be no water. It would not be a viable long-term plan.

  He also knew enough now to understand that he was too close to town to operate a sustainable property. Further back in the country, there would be a buffer of distance that would keep some folks away. It would be too far for most to walk. How many people were within a one mile radius of where he lived now? He didn’t have Google Maps to refer to, but if he imagined the satellite view of his home and drew a circle reaching one mile out from his home he couldn’t even guess the number of folks who might live there. There would be thousands. Thousands of folks with no power, no water, no gardens, no livestock, no game, and no prospect for an end to this disaster.

  Gary thought of the river passing through the center of town. The town had been built on the headwaters of the Clinch River, renowned as being one of the cleanest rivers in the state, but the water was not clean enough to drink unfiltered. How many people were drinking it now without treating it with bleach, boiling it, or filtering it? The results would be apparent soon.

  Without treatment for the chronic diarrhea that would come from drinking untreated river water, folks would become dehydrated and die even faster than the starvation would have killed them. It was a grim prospect indeed.

  The light was failing, and Gary hoped he could get home before dark. He didn’t want to have to strap a headlight to his head. He imagined it as a target that some unseen reprobate might aim for just out of boredom and because the threat of arrest was non-existent.

  Walking toward his home, weaving his way through game trails and cattle pastures, he knew that there was really only one option. He had to convince his family to join forces with Jim. There was also the
whole issue of how to get all their stuff to the valley where Jim lived. Gary had outbuildings and a garage full of preparations he’d made. There was food, ammunition, and all kinds of long-term survival gear he’d not even used yet. Some of it hadn’t even been opened. He’d been so occupied with his return and getting all the kids under one roof that he’d not had a chance to square away his home for the long haul. At this point, maybe it was best not to even get started if they couldn’t stay there.

  He thought of his stash of heritage survival seeds. How could he ever plant a garden at his home and guard it? He’d basically need an armed scarecrow stationed in there at all times to keep thieves away. The whole idea of moving made him sick.

  However, how could he have known that it would come to this? Just because he’d prepared didn’t mean he really expected or wanted anything like this to happen.

  When he was halfway home, the sun had settled behind the horizon and Gary walked through the gloaming, picking his steps more carefully. He knew that a truck was really the only way to get their gear moved. They didn’t have enough fuel for multiple trips, so it had to be one trip in a large truck. The problem was that he didn’t have one and he didn’t know anyone that did.

  Even if he did know someone, could he just expect that they were going to lend him the truck and the fuel to drive to Jim’s? How would he get the truck back? What was the price of fuel now if he were to find someone with fuel to trade? Could it be bought with ammunition or food? Then what kind of hell might rain down on them if the community found out he had food on hand? If people knew he had enough food that he could be trading it off for fuel, would word get out and they instantly become a target?

  Within a mile of his home, Gary was far enough along in his thinking that he had come up with the possible location of a truck that could be used. The agency where he and Jim worked had once owned a box truck that was used for moving office furniture and picking up deliveries. It was the size of a large U-Haul or Ryder truck. If they moved without furniture, they could possibly get all of their gear in it, although he couldn’t imagine it was just sitting there with fuel in the tank. He knew where the key was located because he’d borrowed the truck once before. If the key was still there and if he could secure fuel for the trip, this might just be the ticket for them.

  Gary was stepping lighter by the time he reached the base of his hill. Figuring out the truck scenario had been a milestone. Now he just had to convince his family to go and hope that Jim could line them up with a home. There was also the matter of securing the truck and getting it back home safely, but that was a problem for tomorrow. For now, Gary was tired and looking forward to getting in bed early, sleeping like a log, and rising in the middle of the night for guard duty.

  He started the steep climb toward his home. Even though he’d only been gone a couple of hours, he missed his family. He couldn’t believe that he used to be away from them while at work nearly every day without so much as a thought. After his journey home, he’d never take their presence for granted again. As he climbed, he heard the high-pitched whine of two-stroke dirt bike engines. The sound could only be coming from his property.

  *

  Gary was furious that these idiots on their machines were back at his house again. He dropped his pack, retrieved his rifle from it, and slapped a magazine home. He re-shouldered his pack, chambered a round, and started running up the hill. Though the hill was steep, his conditioning was better than it had been a few weeks ago. Walking hundreds of miles could do that to you.

  He could hear the engines winding up, dropping off, then whining again as they accelerated. That told him that whoever was up there was just racing around his property being a jerk. At the top of the hill, he slowed to a walk to regain control of his breathing, sweat pouring from his forehead into his eyes. He raised his shirttail and wiped it from his face.

  When he reached the gate, he could see that the grass was beaten down on the shoulder of the driveway where they’d driven around the gate. He had to close that gap somehow. Then an idea struck him and he whipped off his pack. Digging around in the pocket, he came up with a hank of paracord. He stepped into the weeds and tied one end to the thick trunk of a wild cherry tree. He stretched it tight and ran it at chest level back to the gate, tying it high on the gate post. Then he grabbed his pack, ducked under the rope, and ran the rest of the way to his house.

  When he came upon the open meadow that served as a common area between all the houses, Gary could see the headlights of three dirt bikes and two ATVs racing around erratically between the houses. There appeared to be no purpose to their behavior other than to create chaos. Gary did not want to kill them – yet – but he did want this to stop. He raised his rifle and fired two quick shots into a distant bank of dirt. The shots got the group’s attention and they slowed for a moment, obviously trying to see where the shots were coming from. While they were still, Gary aimed near one of the bikes and pulled the trigger again, hopefully creating the impression that he was ready to kill the riders if he had to.

  This spurred them into action. Like a swarm of bees, the group buzzed to life and fell into formation. They began accelerating out of the neighborhood and directly toward Gary.

  “Will!” Gary called into his radio. “Can you hear me?”

  In a moment, the reply came. “I’m here. Where are you? I don’t see a green lightstick.”

  “I’m near Scott’s house,” Gary said. “I forgot about the lightstick when I heard the bikes. Come down here. I may need your help.”

  Gary moved off the road and into the brush while the riders sped past. He did not want to take a chance on getting mowed down. In the dim light he could see exactly what had been described to him before, riders in black with skull masks hiding the lower part of their faces. Regardless of their intentions or their fighting abilities, they definitely presented a menacing sight.

  When they had all passed him, he took off running behind them. He made it less than a dozen steps before he heard the shouts and racing engines that indicated someone had wrecked. He ran up on the scene and saw two bikes wiped out and blocking the narrow trail around the gate, the ATVs trying to get around them. Gary fired a shot into the air as he approached.

  This prompted the two ATV drivers to hit the throttle and push their way through the small opening. In the rush, both of them ran over the splayed limbs of one of the downed riders who cursed and cried out. Another rider, who had fallen off his bike, got to his feet and stood his bike up. He was attempting to start it when Gary yelled at him to not move. The rider gave up on trying to start the bike and just jumped onto the seat, crouching and allowing gravity to pull him down the steep driveway. Gary had a perfect shot at his back, but did not feel right about taking it. He knew he probably should, but he couldn’t.

  The last rider, swept from his bike by the paracord and then run over by his friends, was on his feet now and staggering toward his bike. The clothesline trap had stripped the man’s mask off his face and his identity was no longer hidden.

  “Don’t move,” Gary warned. His words did not slow the man. Gary leveled his red dot on the downed bike and fired one shot, then another, into the aluminum engine block. The crankcase shattered, spraying fragments of cast aluminum in all directions. The rider flinched.

  “I said don’t move,” Gary repeated.

  This time the rider stopped.

  “Turn around.”

  Gary heard footsteps behind him. “Will? Is that you?”

  “I’m here,” Will replied.

  Gary dug a light out of his pocket and shined it on the man’s face just long enough to get a good look at it, then switched the light back off. Gary would have to guess the rider’s age at around twenty. Not much more than a boy. Still, the thought of what this man and his friends might have done at Sara’s house if she’d not turned the tables on them infuriated him. Perhaps he should kill him and get this over with.

  “Did you all steal my generator?” Gary asked. />
  The young man didn’t answer.

  “I say we kill him. You think he would have hesitated to kill Sara?” Will spat. “Send a message to the rest of them. Hang his body from a post down by the road.”

  Gary didn’t respond to this. Despite everything, he didn’t want to kill another person if he didn’t have to. It bothered him. “What’s your name?”

  There was a burst of gunfire. Rounds hit all around Gary and Will, dropping leaves and small branches on them. They hit the ground, rolling toward the side of the road and landing in the ditch. Gary could no longer see the outline of their captive in the dark. As quickly as it began, the fire subsided.

  “That was at least two handguns,” Will said. “Sounds like they dumped their magazines on us and took off. It had to be his buddies.”

  “I want to know who that jerk is,” Gary said. “I want to go after him. I want my generator back.”

  “His name is Wesley,” Will said.

  Gary reacted with surprise, squinting at Will in the darkness.

  “Wesley Molloy,” Will said. “His dad is an attorney. They live a mile or so down the road in that big subdivision. They have a McMansion on the hill.”

  “I can’t believe you know him,” Gary said, rolling out of the ditch, taking a knee and listening. “I think they’re gone.”

  “We went to school together,” Will said. “But we weren’t friends. And I have to say that I think you should have killed him.”

  “I’ve seen too much killing,” Gary said. “Just because people are getting away with killing people now doesn’t make it right. I don’t want to become that kind of person. I don’t want to kill people I don’t have to kill.”

  Will shrugged. “I haven’t seen what you’ve seen, Gary, but I worry that these guys will see this as weakness. They’ll be back.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “I hope I am too,” Will replied.