Nothing Left: A Jack Cameron Thriller

by Scott Blade

  I said, “Meet me at the Despair police station.”

  He asked, “How will I know where that is?”

  I said, “You’ll know.”

  He said nothing for another moment.

  Then he said, “I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.”

  I figured that he wasn’t lying about the time because even if he was already in Hope, it would take him about that long to get over to Despair.

  I said, “Call me when you get there.”

  He said, “See you soon.”

  I clicked off the phone and smiled. Now, I needed a gun.

  Chapter 26

  I DROVE BACK toward Despair with the intention to stop for just a moment, which I did.

  I pulled up slowly to the scene of the dead cops. The rain hadn’t given up yet and showed no signs of doing so, which would probably give me an advantage. It was harder to fight in the rain and the storm provided shielding for any sounds that I would make, like footsteps. It would not, however, provide any suppression for the weapon that I intended to use, which was the Remington 870 that was locked up in the center console of the dead cops’ unmarked car.

  Even though I had the advantage of the rain on my side, they had more guys. Therefore, they had more guns than I did, which wasn’t good, but what was worse was the fact that I had no idea how many there were.

  I pulled the Silverado up close to the bumper of the dead cops’ car and left the engine on and the driver’s side door open and hopped out. I rounded the hood and went over to the cop car.

  I popped open the door again and lifted one foot. I shoved the dead cop over as far as I could. His torso pressed over to almost a right angle against the other dead cop. I pulled my foot out and grabbed at his pockets and felt around. I found his keys and jerked them out as fast as I could. I wasn’t happy about sifting around in a dead guy’s pocket, but I needed those keys.

  I took the keys and grabbed the guy by the belt and pulled his legs out of the foot well. They were already a little stiff, but came out relatively easy. I tossed his legs over to the other side and stacked him on top of his dead buddy.

  I dumped myself down in the seat and fired up the engine. I hit it into reverse and drove it back as far as I could. I went at a medium pace because I wanted to get out of the car as fast as possible. I drove it about forty yards over hills and dips and back into one nice-sized crater. I looked around and I couldn’t see the road any longer, which meant that anyone on the road wouldn’t be able to see me and that’s what I wanted. I wanted Mister Man and his guys to drive right past their dead friends. I didn’t want them to stumble upon them.

  After I was satisfied with where I had hidden the vehicle, I unlocked the Remington 870 and removed it. It had an Archangel shell holder with seven rounds in it. I took that and the two Glocks that the dead cops had as sidearms. I stepped out and walked back up the hill, tramped through some wet brush, and went back to the Silverado. I pulled open the driver’s side door and tossed in the Remington 870 and the two Glocks.

  I shut the door and cranked the engine, threw it into reverse and spilled back out onto the road and slammed the gas. I headed off to Despair.

  Chapter 27

  DESPAIR WAS COLDER than the rest of Colorado’s local region and I had no idea why. It could’ve been because nothing was around to block the wind that rolled in off the low hilly surroundings. Then again, maybe it was just living up to its name by giving off the cold feelings that came from the word—despair.

  It had also been hard to maneuver because the roads, which are the lifeblood of any town, were long since ruined, dried, and abandoned. And the rain had not given up in its mission to drown everything in sight, making everything muddy.

  I took it slow.

  I drove up and down streets, dodging rubble and old deserted structures, most of which were still standing walls and doors and half-built frames. Most of the buildings had weeds grown up to the walls from scattered patches of brown grass. The windows were almost all gone or turned to dust. Looters had come and gone. The town had probably become a thing of legends and scary bedtime stories for the kids who lived in Hope.

  Don’t stay up too late or the ghosts from Despair will come and get you.

  I turned on the high beams and searched for the old police station. I found it and then I saw the old police cruiser parked outside—not parked, but abandoned outside with the same conditions as it had when I saw it hours before—no tires and no glass. It looked like a relic from a forgotten time.

  The artifact police cruiser was the perfect thing to get their attention. I parked the truck and got out, leaving the truck’s lights shining on the remains of the old police cruiser.

  I parked close to the front end. As soon as I cracked open the door, the cold wandered in and the rain’s echo tripled in volume, which I supposed was a testament to how good the Chevy Silverado was sealed and soundproofed from the outside elements.

  I tugged my rain poncho’s hood back over my head, swung the door all the way open and slid out. I shut the door behind me and walked over to the abandoned cop car. My hood kept me dry, but the offset was that my vision was limited to an acute cone of sight because the cloth blocked my peripherals like blinders on a horse. The sound of rain hammering on the top of my hood reverberated through my skull.

  I circled the car and checked out the interior through the empty holes where windows once were. The dash had been completely ripped apart and anything electronic or of any value had been stripped away, including the steering wheel and the pedals and the knob to the gear selector. Even the seatbelts were gone.

  The seats were shredded, but there was still a good amount of cloth left.

  Any metal that had been left was rusted over and the paint had chipped away. It had hints of white left. There were no light bars, only the outline of a shadow where they had once been fastened into place on the roof.

  I went back to the gas tank because what I needed was whatever gas was left in the tank.

  I used my fingers and pried the cover open. The whole thing squeaked and resisted for a moment and then it sprang open. The hinges broke off under the pressure and I flung it to the ground.

  The gas cap was still there.

  No one had stolen that, I thought.

  I tried to unscrew it, but it was tighter than the cover had been and gave me some resistance, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a little extra pressure. It finally came unscrewed and I tossed it in the same direction that I had the cover, but the wind picked up and blew it halfway down the street. It bounced over the remains of a road.

  Instantly, I smelled the gasoline. I had no idea what the expiration date was on gasoline. I had never studied about gasoline or oil and had little interest in it, but today it was going to be very useful.

  I smiled.

  I returned to the truck and opened the door and jumped back in. The seats were already wet from my rain poncho, which I felt bad for because it wasn’t my vehicle, but I figured a truck like this is meant to have some weather damage.

  I popped the cigarette lighter in and sat back up in driving position. I backed the truck up to the other side of the street and waited.

  After a several seconds the lighter popped back out, indicating that it was ready for use. I pulled it out and took a gander at the hot end. It was hot, definitely—no doubt about it. It glowed red.

  I hopped back out quickly and jogged over to the old, relic cop car.

  I stopped about halfway and scanned the horizon. The rain blinded my normal vision quite a lot, but I figured that if Mister Man and his guys were coming right then that I would probably be able to see their high beams from far down the street. And they would’ve been using their high beams in this weather.

  I continued over to the cop car and stopped at the rear. I pushed the cigarette lighter through the outer seal of the gas tank and forced it down and shoved it until it went in all the way. I felt a small vibration, as it must have tumbled down into the ta
nk. However long it would take before the heat met the gas and an explosion resulted, I wasn’t certain. I hoped not long, but still long enough for me to get clear.

  As soon as I felt the little vibration, I turned and ran—full speed—until I was halfway back to the Silverado. I slowed and twisted around and walked backward to the truck.

  The wait wasn’t long.

  The gas tank and the gasoline inside must have still been viable because the whole back end of the cop car exploded.

  A quick burst of fire balled and rounded and erupted into both flame and black smoke.

  I kept walking backward to the truck.

  The ball of fire was magnificent in the dark, black sky.

  I made it back to the truck and almost at the same time, the phone in my pocket started to ring.

  I waited until I was inside the truck and slipped it out of my pocket and answered.

  Mister Man said, “What the hell was that?”

  I said, “That was your cue.”

  Mister Man said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I said, “I mean that’s where I am.”

  “You needed to blow something up to tell us?”

  I said, “Relax, it’s an old, abandoned town. No one will care.”

  He said, “And what about the cops in Hope? They’ll see that blast. Probably. Christ! They’re probably sending the fire department right now.”

  Shit, I thought. I hadn’t thought about that. Not every plan is perfect, but I doubted it.

  I said, “Don’t worry about that. Hope is twelve miles away. The fire will be rained out by the time anyone would’ve come down this way anyway. Just get here. The fire will light the way.”

  He said, “We’re past Hope now. We’ll be there shortly.”

  I said, “Hurry. Don’t make me wait.”

  And I hung up the phone before he had the chance to say anything else.

  I put the truck into drive and slipped forward a bit and then drove about a block away and pulled onto a side street, near what looked like an old diner. I parked the truck and grabbed one Glock. I pressed the ejection switch and ejected the clip—with fully loaded 9mm parabellum rounds. I jerked the slide back once, twice and nothing came out. The gun had not been chambered. I dry fired it and checked that it worked. Then I slipped the magazine back in and chambered a round and set the Glock on the seat next to me.

  I took the second Glock and ejected the magazine and checked the rounds. I did the same to the slider and nothing came out. I tossed the gun onto the other side of the front bench. I wasn’t planning on needing it. I just wanted the extra magazine.

  I grabbed the Remington 870 and racked it. Nothing came out. I racked it again, still nothing. It was empty. The Remington had been a tactical police special version. It was modified with the Archangel shell holder screwed to the side and a tactical stock that extended, but I left it in the tight position. The shotgun was an eighteen gauge with a black, tactical slide. It ran smooth and looked to be double action.

  Then I pulled out a shell to load it into the tube and I smiled. The shell was a three-inch Magnum round. There were seven of them. A Magnum round was a devastating round to get hit with. It would blow a hole through a target made of flesh and tissue and bone. Truly not a round that you wanted against you, but for me it was definitely the round that I wanted on my side.

  I wondered if it was legal for a couple of state police to be using it in their shotguns. Of course, these guys had already passed what was legal and illegal.

  I loaded the rounds. The tube held four and was full.

  I racked the slide and the most universally powerful sound of the last one hundred years echoed into the Silverado’s cabin.

  CRUNCH! CRUNCH!

  The shotgun sound.

  I smiled.

  I had seven Magnum rounds and two full clips for the Glock.

  I was ready for bear, or whatever Mister Man was going to bring.

  Chapter 28

  I WATCHED FROM THE STREET as Mister Man and his other guys came driving into the town. They came in with red and blue lights flashing like cops, but the light bars weren’t mounted on the tops of their cars. They were embedded in the front grill near the headlights and in the back near the rear lights.

  Mister Man was Crocket, the commanding officer of the two dead state cops. How many bad cops he had on his team, I wasn’t sure, but I was certain that they would all come tonight to clean up this mess.

  They drove up in two unmarked police cars—black Ford Tauruses. There could’ve been anywhere from two guys to eight of them. I was hoping for two, but I got three.

  I watched as they drove slowly through the rain and circled the burning police car and the old Despair police station. The first car drove around to the front and parked next to the crumbling steps.

  The second car pulled around the back and then slowed to a crawl and turned on a searchlight that was fixed to the driver’s side. The light searched the windows and doors and corners of the building. They were looking for me.

  I pulled the dead cop’s cell phone out of my pocket and switched it to silent, which was easy because it had the silent switch on the outside. I didn’t want Crocket calling me and hearing the pop song.

  I waited across the street inside the old courthouse. There were large windows with no glass, but several concrete pillars were still standing out front that provided a bit of added protection.

  Crocket waited in his car as the other car pulled around from the back and drove up clockwise around the station. It stopped about fifteen yards from the front bumper of the other Taurus.

  They left the engines running and the red and blue lights flashing. The beams flashed across the buildings and lit up the rain. They all got out of the cars. Two guys had been in the second car and one came in the first.

  I waited.

  Crocket soon identified himself because the guy who had been the driver in the first car raised a cell phone to his ear and my phone started to ring.

  I ducked back out of sight and answered it.

  Crocket said, “We’re here. Where are you?”

  I said nothing. I set the phone down on the concrete and left it.

  Chapter 29

  CROCKET AND HIS MEN stood in a circle in front of their cars in the rain facing the old police station. They each wore Colorado State Police rain ponchos with the word “POLICE” written on the back in yellow.

  I imagined that they were wearing their police bulletproof tactical vests under the ponchos.

  The bulletproof part wouldn’t make a difference if I hit them with the Magnum shells. The word bulletproof only goes so far.

  Only one had his hood down and that was Crocket. He wore a black baseball cap. Each of them had their Glocks out and none of them had their Remington 870s, which meant I had better firepower. But I wanted to keep things silent for as long as I could.

  So I waited.

  Crocket pointed at the station. He walked to the front entrance and told one guy to follow while the other went around to the back.

  I got up slowly and ran over to the side door of the courthouse. I eased it open and saw that the side street was clear.

  I ran to the edge of the building and the main street and waited. I saw flashlight beams piercing through the lower level windows.

  The Despair police station was three levels—the main level, the second floor, and below the surface there was a basement with old jail cells.

  Crocket and one guy were searching the main level. I saw that the third guy stood around the back corner of the building with his back to me. He was watching the rear entrance in case I tried to escape, but he wasn’t stupid either. They weren’t sure if I was even in there and they knew it. Every ten seconds or so the guy would turn and look back over his shoulder.

  The Despair police station wasn’t very big. They would have it cleared in minutes.

  I ran over to the unmarked Ford Tauruses. I reached one and stayed low. I opened the dri
ver’s door and reached in and popped the trunk. I wanted to even the odds against those bulletproof vests. I ran back to the trunk and smiled when I saw that there was one bulletproof vest left.

  I set the Remington 870 down against the rear bumper and stayed low. I pulled off my poncho—fast. The rain hit me hard and drenched my head and face. I pulled out the bulletproof vest and ducked my head underneath the lid of the trunk to keep my face from getting more wet.

  I slipped one arm into the vest and then the second. I fastened the straps and adjusted everything as quickly as I could.

  I peeked back around the car and saw that the cops inside were now on the second floor. The flashlight beams tore through the windows and shot out into the night sky.

  The thunder roared overhead and another lightning bolt fired across the sky, right above the town. I shut the trunk, pulled the rain poncho back over my head and pulled the hood up. I reached down and picked up the Remington.

  I pointed it at the side street near the police station’s corner and walked over. I stopped at the corner and put my back against the wall. I took a quick peek around the corner and saw the lone cop. He was still facing the other direction.

  I waited.

  He wasn’t looking back as often as he had because he was getting comfortable and feeling safe.

  The way that one of the cars had been parked was so that the headlights could shine right down the side street. This must’ve been on purpose, some kind of cop training technique to enable the back entrance to remain lit up. I was unable to approach him from that direction because even in this fierce rain the lights behind me would’ve cast a shadow and he would’ve detected me.

  I moved back away from the side street and the corner and went back to the cop car. I opened the driver’s door and killed the lights. Then I shut the door and ran as fast I as could back around the opposite side of the police station.

  I ran clockwise, the way that the second Ford Taurus had driven.