by Joe McKinney
“You owe Union Field six thousand pounds of beef, Hinton. It won’t be a free market for you until you’ve paid that back. Now get your hands up.”
Jimmy did as he was told. He raised his hands up around his shoulders, at the same time taking a barely perceptible half step in front of Gabi.
“What are you planning on doing, Justin?”
Jimmy could feel Gabi’s hand inching down his back, then pulling the tiny metal canister from the waistband of his slacks.
“I’m gonna drag your sorry pot-smoking ass to Ken Stoler. What he’s gonna do with you I can’t say. But I can promise you that it is going to be a rough ride for you getting there. You might just fall down a few times, if you know what I mean.”
A hard-edged smile played at the corner of the cowboy’s mouth, exposing his tobacco-stained teeth.
“Yeah, I think I get you loud and clear,” said Jimmy. “Gabi, what do you think?”
“Loud and clear,” she said, stepping around from behind Jimmy with the metal canister raised high. She pulled the trigger on the head of the canister and it let out a liquid spray of oleoresin capsicum. Justin Roth and his squad flinched as the pepper spray hit their faces, and for a moment, nothing seemed to happen. But then, suddenly, the air seemed to catch fire. Roth and his soldiers dug their fists into their eyes. They were screaming. A few of them doubled over, coughing.
Gabi pulled Jimmy back into the startled crowd. He too could feel the pepper spray burning the back of his throat. “We gotta move,” she said, and before they turned and ran she sprayed the remainder of the canister into the crowd.
Angry yells rose up all around them. People elbowed each other, trampled one another, in a mad dash to vacate the area. The scene was complete confusion. Carts were upended, people were yelling, fighting, scrambling to scoop up their belongings amid the rush of bodies.
Through the panic, Jimmy could see other squads of soldiers turning their heads toward the outburst. A few were already running.
“This way,” Gabi said, pulling him through the crowd.
He tightened his grip on her hand and let her lead him. They ran with the crowd, slowing to a walk only when they encountered people who were facing the direction from which the couple had just come.
Jimmy glanced left, then right. Stoler’s soldiers were everywhere.
“Jimmy, there,” said Gabi, pulling at his sleeve. “You see it?”
She was pointing at a man who was trying to guide a flock of sheep away from the turmoil. The big dumb animals were bleating irritably, but reluctantly obeying their shepherd’s pushing and prodding.
Gabi ran for the flock, and before Jimmy had a solid idea of what she had in mind, she was ducking down onto all fours and crawling into the middle of the flock.
He shook his head, laughing.
“God, I love that woman.”
And then he jumped down onto all fours and crawled after her.
Watching Nate gawk at the vendors and the hookers and the crowds of people, Richardson had to laugh. The man was acting like they’d landed on Sunset Strip back in its heyday, instead of some run-down flea market at the edge of a dead world. Nate’s reaction was humorous to watch, but also a little sad once Richardson really thought about it. This is what they had been reduced to. Places like Herculaneum had become their Mecca, their temples. Good God, he thought, have we really fallen so far as all that, where even our dreams are small?
“Keep an eye out for the girls,” Richardson said, adjusting the pair of packs on his shoulders. The rifles and the ammunition were surprisingly heavy when you had to carry them all day.
Nate chuckled. “Dude, I see a couple of them right now.”
They were almost to the docks, where ten battered trawlers rocked gently in the river’s current. Richardson looked back at Nate and saw him waving to a pair of rough-looking women whose occupation was obvious at a glance.
“Seriously?” Richardson said. “After what just happened, you haven’t learned your lesson?”
“What?” Nate said. His smile was huge. He was really enjoying this. “You know how long it’s been since I got laid?”
“No idea,” Richardson muttered, and thought: And I don’t care so please don’t tell me, even though I know you’re about to.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know, either. And brother, that’s too long.”
Richardson smiled perfunctorily at him, then went back to scanning the riverbank, hoping to catch some sight of Sylvia Carnes and Avery Harper. The market thinned out quite a bit this close to the docks. He saw a few vegetable stands and the occasional flock of turkeys or sheep or goats, but no sign of the women. He was worried about the squad of soldiers from Ken Stoler’s compound who were standing on the dock, but he and Nate had bought the women a change of clothes that he hoped would make it easier for them to sneak onboard the Sugar Jane. They’d play it by ear, adjust as needed.
“How long’s it been for you?” Nate said.
“Huh?”
“How long’s it been since you, you know?” Nate clicked his tongue suggestively.
Richardson rolled his eyes. He had no desire to fill Nate in on the details of his sex life, just as he had no desire to think of how little there was of it to tell about. The last sexual encounter he’d had was in the winter, three years earlier. He’d been sleeping in a tent next to a road outside of Laramie, Nebraska, a foot of snow on the ground outside. A woman had come along. She was too skinny, too hungry-looking to be attractive, but she needed shelter, and food, and Richardson had enough of both to spare. He let her stay, and they slept side by side in his sleeping bag, cuddling each other, not for the thrill of it, but for warmth. Richardson had gone straight to sleep, not expecting the woman to give up anything in exchange for his kindness; but he woke with her stroking his cock with her hand, tugging on him until he came. It had been an empty, pathetic scene, devoid of passion. He hadn’t made a sound. They hadn’t even kissed. He never knew her name.
“That long, huh?” Nate said.
“What?” Ben said.
Nate smiled and shook his head. “Say, what do you think about Avery Harper? She’s got a little meat on her, I know, but she seems pretty cool. I wonder if she’s got a boyfriend back at that compound she’s from.”
“I doubt it,” Richardson said.
“She told you that?”
“No, Nate. She didn’t say a word to me about it. But seeing as all these soldiers around here are trying to kill her, I doubt she has anyone back at the compound anymore. Know what I mean?”
Nate nodded, the smile leaving his face. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I got you.”
They found Sylvia and Avery hiding behind a row of wrecked cars that had been there so long that weeds were growing up around the wheels and through the empty engine compartments. Richardson gave them the clothes he’d found for them and he and Nate waited while the women crawled inside one of the wrecked cars and changed. When they came out, Richardson told them about the boat he’d chartered.
“Hinton and his wife,” Sylvia said, “you think we can trust them?”
“I think so. The wife seemed to have a pretty good head on her shoulders, and I got the feeling they weren’t any more eager to meet up with Ken Stoler’s soldiers than we are. That’s their boat right over there, the white one at slip six. It’s called the Sugar Jane.”
She nodded. The ponytail between her shoulders looked as lively as a squirrel back there, and he frowned, looking at it.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Your hair.” The clothes he’d obtained for them managed to change their appearance somewhat, but that head of frizzy gray hair of hers was going to give them away for sure if any of Stoler’s soldiers got close. And they still had to get past the squad stationed at the entrance to the docks. “Have you ever thought of cutting it? I mean really short?”
“Cut my hair?” she said. She looked momentarily horrified.
But she didn’t get to finish the rest of i
t. Before she could say anything else, they heard a lot of yelling coming from the edge of the market. The soldiers who had been lounging around the entry to the docks sprinted toward the disturbance.
“That doesn’t look good,” Nate said.
They heard two shotgun blasts and more screaming.
Avery put a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. “There’s no one guarding the docks,” she said. “We should get going.”
Sylvia took the young woman’s hand and squeezed it. “She’s right, Ben. Let’s move while we have a chance.”
Another shotgun blast from the edge of the market made them turn. Jimmy Hinton and his wife, who was wielding the shotgun, were running into the clearing. Though it wasn’t really a run. Both husband and wife were in their late sixties and overweight, and they advanced with an awkward loping gait that looked terrifyingly slow compared to the soldiers chasing after them. Richardson saw one of the soldiers bring his rifle up to his shoulder and fire at the couple. Little umbrellas of dirt exploded around Hinton’s feet, and he raised his arms and wobbled like a man trying to stay balanced on a high wire. Gabi Hinton turned and jammed the stock of her shotgun into her belly and fired twice at the advancing soldiers. One of the soldiers dropped to his knees, holding his side. Then she turned and ran after her husband, who was still gesturing to Richardson to get onto the dock.
Richardson ran up the short flight of stairs that led to the dock. Twenty feet ahead of him, Sylvia, Avery, and Nate were face-to-face with a soldier—the man was barely Avery’s age; just a kid, really—who had his rifle leveled at them. The soldier looked frightened, almost like he was seasick, but when he saw Richardson charging up the stairs he turned and fired at Richardson. The bullet whined through the air, narrowly missing his face. Richardson ducked behind a thick wooden pylon and drew his pistol.
He gave a quick glance over his shoulder and saw that Jimmy and his wife had almost reached the dock. Then he looked back at Sylvia, Avery, and Nate, who had backed up to the edge of the dock, their hands in the air. The soldier was still standing in the middle of the gangway, the rifle down around his hips. His mouth was hanging open and his eyes were darting back and forth between his prisoners and the pylon where Richardson was hiding. It looked like he couldn’t make up his mind what to do. Richardson made it up for him. He stepped out from behind the pylon with his pistol in both hands, leveled it at the soldier’s chest, and fired twice before the man could register what was happening. The soldier kept his feet, even after getting hit. He staggered back to the opposite edge of the dock, his hands hanging limply at his side, the rifle dropped and forgotten on the wooden planks. His face had an elastic, slack-jawed expression as he stared about him. He never cried out. He saw a wooden pylon and fell against it. There was a look of utter disbelief on his face as he sank down onto his butt. His eyes never closed.
“David,” Avery shouted. The girl ran over to him and stopped, wanting to touch him, but unable to do so.
Sylvia gave him a sad, pained look before grabbing Avery by the shoulders and pulling her toward the Sugar Jane.
“Good shot,” Jimmy Hinton said from the top of the stairs. “You seen the boat yet?”
“Huh?” Richardson said.
“No time like right now.” He turned to his wife. “Gabi, you got this rifle?”
“Got it,” she said, as she too crested the top of the stairs. “Get the boat started.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Gabi Hinton ran over to where the dead soldier’s rifle lay on the dock and scooped it up. More soldiers were coming up the stairs. She turned the rifle on them and started firing in short, controlled bursts, aiming every shot, making them count.
“You got those rifles you promised me?” Hinton said to Richardson. “Now’s the time to prove they work.”
The world seemed to be swirling around Richardson, going too fast. Feeling dizzy, he took one of the AR-15s from his pack and started firing at the soldiers who were running toward them from the market. From where they were firing, he and Gabi had both cover and concealment behind the heavy dock timbers, while the soldiers had to cross nearly thirty yards of open concrete slab. They were sitting ducks down there.
“I’m out,” Gabi said to him.
“Go to the boat. I can cover us.”
“We’ll need at least two minutes to get the boat loose from the dock.”
“I got it,” he said. “Go.”
Gabi slung the rifle over her shoulder and waddled down the length of the dock. Richardson watched her go, then turned back to the concrete slab between the dock and the market. Nearly all the vendors had fled. Here and there he saw carts overturned, their contents spilled on the ground. Dead soldiers were everywhere. Here and there he saw a few dead vendors, and their animals.
The soldiers had taken up cover and concealment at the edges of the market. He could see their gray shirts and black pants moving in the shadows. He fired whenever he had a chance, then stopped to reload.
He ejected the empty magazine, slapped in another one, and brought the rifle back up. It had taken him less than five seconds, but in that time, two of the soldiers had sprinted from their hiding places to an overturned vegetable cart off to his left. They’re trying to flank me, he realized. Draw me out.
He could see their feet under the cart, and that was enough. What he knew of fighting he’d learned from Ed Moore, the retired U.S. deputy marshal who had helped Richardson and a handful of others escape Jasper Sewell’s compound years before, and he could almost hear the old marshal’s voice in his ears, reminding him that, when it came to gunfights, there was no such thing as cover. You could conceal yourself, but you couldn’t ever cover yourself. That was a myth.
“Damn right,” he muttered, as he centered the rifle’s sights on the vegetable cart and started to fire.
The bullets cut through the cart like a chainsaw, filling the air with splinters of wood and bits of vegetables, and when the dust settled, the cart was in four large pieces, dripping with the remains of pureed vegetables.
The two soldiers lay dead on the concrete behind it.
From behind him, he heard the Sugar Jane’s engines coughing and spluttering to life. Sylvia was calling his name. He fired at the few gray shirts he could see moving in the shadows, then turned and ran for the boat.
It was already pulling away as he reached the end of the dock. Sylvia and Gabi Hinton were motioning to him to hurry up.
“Hurry, Ben!” Sylvia shouted.
He heard more yelling behind him, and the sound of running footsteps on the wooden pier. Richardson glanced over his shoulder and saw a handful of soldiers coming up the stairs.
Jimmy was right beside him. “Let’s go!” he said.
Suddenly Gabi popped up behind Sylvia. She had something in her hand. “Get your head down!” Gabi yelled, and lobbed what looked like a green baseball over Richardson’s head.
A second later, there was an explosion that knocked him off his feet. He looked behind him, toward the market. The dock was in a shambles. Men were dead or dying. Burnt pieces of wood floated on the water. Smoke drifted on the breeze. There was a giant hole where the stairs had been.
She threw a grenade, Richardson realized. Holy shit. That woman’s nuts.
But the shooting hadn’t stopped. More of Stoler’s men were emerging from the edge of the market, firing toward the Sugar Jane.
“Hurry!” Gabi said. “Come on.”
He ducked his head and jumped into Sylvia’s open arms, the two of them crashing into a padded seat on the far side of the deck. A sharp pain went through his right shoulder, and he groaned.
“Are you okay? Ben?”
He opened his eyes. He was face-to-face with Sylvia, their noses only inches apart.
Richardson nodded.
“You did good back there. Thanks.”
He smiled and let out an exhausted sigh. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”
They were powering away from the dock now, the diesels making a huge
noise, but it still seemed to Richardson like they were creeping along. He licked his lips, all at once aware of just how close he was to Sylvia. She didn’t look away. He could hear her breathing and see the sparkling drops of river water in her hair.
“You still want me to cut it?” she asked.
He was about to laugh when he heard sobbing behind him. Frowning, he rolled over and saw Avery Harper with her face pressed into Nate Royal’s chest. Nate seemed at a complete loss as to what to do with the crying girl, and as he put his hands on her back and slowly patted her shoulders, he looked like he’d just been handed more responsibility than he wanted to deal with.
“Is she okay?” Richardson asked Sylvia.
Sylvia shook her head. “That boy you shot on the dock—that was a friend of hers.”
“Ah, Christ,” Richardson said. He gave the sobbing girl another glance. “Ah, Christ.”
He pulled himself up to a seated position on the gunwale and watched the Missouri coastline slip slowly away.
CHAPTER 14
The truck lumbered to a stop. Rough hands pulled Niki Booth from her seat and threw her to the ground. Even before she rose to her feet she could smell the sour-sweet stink of putrescence in the air. She was wearing a burlap hood, and the stench of rotting bodies mingled with the heat of her breath and her own suffused terror. But her isolation under the hood was also a small blessing, for it gave her a chance to steady herself before she had to face the place she had only heard of in whispered rumors from the river Bedouins in Herculaneum.
She felt a hand grip the top of the hood and yank it off. Niki wheeled around on the soldier, but he had already stepped back out of range of her feet. Apparently, he had learned his lesson after the incident the night before, when they agreed to uncuff her so she could go to the bathroom. Two of the guards, she saw, still had nasty bruises on their faces where she had kicked them.