Clayton saw an opening and took it, lifting himself above the lip of the ditch, his rifle stretched before him and the men standing in front of the truck illuminated beautifully in the headlights. The first shot cut through the gunner’s right shoulder, causing him to drop his assault rifle. Clayton cranked the bolt back and was pushing it forward with the palm of his right hand, when a large .45 caliber slug slammed into the rifle’s breech, easily knocking it from his hands. Cory lay in the ditch, looking up at his friend kneeling over him, the gun spinning from his hands, killing any hope he had of escaping this deadly situation.
“Climb on outta there, boys!” Darcy bellowed, above the crackle of the burning brush and human flesh lighting the scene. Clayton lifted his hands above his head and looked down at Cory, as if to say, Stay put!
“It’s only me, the other guy’s dead.”
“Okay, get out of there and walk on over here,” Darcy instructed, moving back to stand in the lights at the front of the truck. His wounded buddy picked up his rifle and joined him, doing his best to hold the gun on Clayton with his left hand. Clayton stood, again looking down at Cory, who was vehemently moving his head back and forth, telling his friend ‘no’ without having to speak the words. Clayton didn’t hesitate but stepped out of the ditch and was moving down the slope toward the men, when unexpectedly, the sound of a truck’s engine could be heard, torqued-out and screaming like a banshee. All three men looked to see where it might be coming from. There was sound only, no light and the reverberation was so loud it was hard to pinpoint where it was coming from as it mixed with the other noises filling the area around them.
A fraction of a second later a truck rounded the corner of the station, taking the turn on two wheels, bouncing back onto all four once the driver was able to straighten out the charge. Darcy and the injured gunner looked right, then left, and determined that their best bet was to stay in the protected area at the front of their truck, each man leaning out far enough to shoot at the approaching pickup. Clayton dove for the ditch, scrambling on top of Cory before they both managed to flee the ditch’s bank and head into the empty field to the east.
The two stopped long enough to watch the marauding pickup collide, with tremendous force, into the back end of the parked truck. A heavy grill on the front of the charging vehicle lifted the truck’s back-end, accelerating it forward, knocking the gunner to the ground and crushing Darcy under the weight of the front tire. Once the shock and trauma of the crash was over, a shaken, but very much alive Roger, stepped from the cab of his pickup, a pistol in hand and a large gash over his right brow. Blood poured from the head injury and into his right eye. He raised his right arm in an effort to stanch the flow and was only partially successful. With his pistol held on the fallen victim, he squinted with the left eye, looking up into the field where he’d last seen the pair running.
“You boys need some help?” he yelled.
Cory and Clayton dropped to the ground, the flicker of the nearby flames all but destroying their attempt at hiding.
“I can see you,” Roger shouted. “Get down here and help me.”
“What do you think?” Clayton asked. “Can we trust this guy?”
“I’m not sure, but we’d be dead if it wasn’t for him.”
“What’s the hold up? If I wanted you dead, you’d be cold by now,” the rescuer shouted.
“I don’t think we’ve got any options. If we run and he’s not for real, we’re dead anyway,” Clayton suggested. “I think we have to trust him, at least for now.”
The two looked at each other, Cory shrugging his shoulders before they got up and headed back toward the scene of the impeccably timed rescue.
Roger stood over the wounded man with the bullet hole in his chest bleeding badly, and broken ribs likely cutting into his vitals.
“Where’d you come from?” Clayton asked, as they reached the pavement and approached the stranger.
“I’ve been shadowing you all day once you left the school. This mornin’ I was on the other side. Had a change of heart and decided to play my hand when I could see that you were played out.”
“Good timing,” Cory said.
“Yeah, really saved our bacon,” Clayton added.
“What do we do now?” Cory asked, ripping away a piece of his shirt, winding it into a makeshift bandage, which he then applied to the stranger’s head.
“Thanks. I guess we leave this piece of trash here as he is, unless you boys feel inclined to put one in him,” Roger said, looking back and forth between the two young men. Both made no attempt to act on the suggestion. “That’s what I figured.”
“Come on, looks like you could use a lift,” he said, nodding toward the jeep with the flat tire.
“Yes we could. You interested in joining up with us?” Clayton asked.
“If you’ll have me, son. If you’ll have me,” Roger said, understanding the need for atonement and hoping the good he’d done today would open the door for greater forgiveness.
“Can’t see why not. Let’s load what we can and get out of here,” Cory said, picking up the gunner’s rifle and taking the extra clips from his belt.
“You can’t just leave me here like this! I’ll die. You’ve got to help me!”
No one spoke but the three moved quickly, securing the area, taking what they could and tossing it all into the back of the newcomer’s truck. The Browning was the last thing to go and as Cory was retrieving it from the mount, a very angry Sergeant could be heard yelling through the walkie-talkie, which had been left on the seat.
“Somebody better pick up! Cory, Clayton, come on boys, you there?” he barked over the communication device.
“Farrell, we’re here. We’re good. Had a guy help us and we’re on our way to your position. We’ll explain when we get there,” Cory said, before lifting both the walkie-talkie and machine gun from the jeep and putting them in the truck.
Seconds later the trio was on their way, leaving a scene of carnage behind, one man still alive, but not for long.
Chapter 32
Thirty minutes passed before Farrell could see a single headlight weaving back and forth up the mountain’s incline, leading to the caravan stretched-out under the dim glow of the moon. His brain, in an attempt to make sense of the single light, formed an image of the two boys and newfound ally sitting atop a lone motorcycle, a bristle of barrels aimed in all directions and Cory sitting backwards, defending the rear. His anger had only just begun to subside but the caricature, created in his head, brought a subtle lift to the corners of his mouth as he dismissed the image almost as soon as it had formed. The sound of a truck soon filtered through the mountain air, the canyon acting like a funnel, not only lifting the noise to the Chief’s ears but also providing no avenue of escape, should they need it.
Farrell stood in the middle of the road, the assault rifle hanging loosely through a loop in his right arm, both hands in his front pockets. There was no smile, no welcoming salute, just the ire of a commanding officer about to reprove some wayward subordinates. The truck rolled to a stop several yards ahead of the Sergeant, the occupants taking note that the man in the road now changed his hold on the gun, bringing his left hand to bear the weight while his right married the trigger.
“Clayton, you go talk to him,” Cory said, encouraging his buddy to get out of the truck.
“What? Why me? This wasn’t all my idea, if you’ll remember.”
“Yeah but he’s less likely to kill you,” Cory exclaimed, looking through the windshield at the statue of a man, unmoving and unhappy.
“How do you figure? You saved his life. He owes you one . . . ”
Clayton’s rationale was short lived as Farrell called from the road, “Come on out here boys. Driver, you stay in the truck but turn it off and give the keys to Cory.” Roger complied, bringing the engine to a standstill, leaving the lights on and handing over the keys. The two young men slowly dragged themselves from the comfort and safety of the cab not wanting to me
et their fate. Standing side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, they closed the pickup’s door and took a single step forward bringing them next to the front bumper.
“Hey Chief, thanks for waiting up for us,” Cory said, waving at Farrell in an attempt to lighten the meeting.
“Boys,” Farrell said, slowly nodding his head with little, if any, expression crossing his face. “Move on over here.”
C&C looked at each other, neither one willing to take the first step. Then, as if simultaneously pushed from behind, the boys stepped forward in unison, the wounds they’d sustained during the battles of the day starting to have some impact. Cory’s side ached and fresh blood ran from the wound, a trail of red from waist to ankle. It looked worse than it felt but he played it to his advantage, suspecting that Farrell wouldn’t hit him if he were really hurt. Clayton, as well, limped forward, the two taking their time to complete the ten steps that lead to the Sergeant.
Farrell looked them over before he spoke. “That was a foolish thing you did back there.” Neither responded but both nodded their heads in the affirmative. “You’re lucky to be alive. I hope you know that. We’ve already lost too many good friends today and I would have hated to add you to the list.” Again both young men nodded their agreement but neither spoke. “Who’s this with ya?”
The battle weary pair looked back and forth at one another, contemplating who had the guts to actually engage the Chief in a dialogue. Cory reluctantly assumed the spokesman role and replied, taking note to hold his side and cringe while he answered, “His name’s Roger. He was one of Don’s lieutenants until this morning. Got sick of the needless killing and wants to join us.”
Farrell’s gaze shot to the cab and the driver. “He helped you boys?”
“We’d be dead if he hadn’t of shown up when he did,” Cory said.
Clayton could see the ice breaking and jumped in with both feet. “You should have seen it, Farrell! There were burning bodies and we were out of ammo, and then this crazy guy comes ripping around the corner on two wheels! It was awesome!” The look on Farrell’s face slowed Clayton down but did not stop him. “Awesome, but stupid,” he said, looking down at the ground between them.
“Listen, I don’t want to understate how selfless your actions were tonight and I know they were well intended, but I can’t have you disregarding what I tell you to do. You understand?” Farrell asked, his expression softening somewhat.
“Yeah, won’t happen again,” Clayton reported, kicking some small stones near his feet.
“I hear ya Chief, we just wanted everybody to get away and not have to fight anymore,” Cory replied, his head still low, not wanting to match the Sergeant’s stare. “But yeah, we won’t do that again.”
“Enough about it for now. You both okay? Looks like you took some pellets,” Farrell noted, taking Clayton by the chin and looking his face over.
“Now that all the excitements worn off they’re starting to sting some,” Cory indicated, reluctantly looking the Chief in the face.
“Hustle up to the lead truck. Have Mel take a look and at least clean them for now. We still got a ways to go tonight and who knows what’s in store for us ahead. So, who is this guy?”
“Didn’t get his last name but he seems okay,” Clayton answered.
“Can we trust him?”
“Saved our lives,” Cory said, his voice rising as he looked over his shoulder at the man sitting behind the wheel of the pickup.
“That’s for sure. We’d both be dead if it wasn’t for him, Farrell,” Clayton agreed with his buddy.
“Alright, run along and get yourselves looked after.” Farrell motioned for the man to exit the truck and join him in the glare of the headlight, after retrieving the keys from Cory. “You can leave your weapons on the seat,” he said, still holding the assault rifle in a defensive posture. Roger did as he was asked and exited the driver’s door, the ragtag bandage still looped around his head, blood-soaked and dirty. “I understand we owe you a debt of gratitude,” Farrell said, still somewhat wary of the stranger.
“I was glad I could help. Those two got some guts but they were in a pretty tight corner. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, I guess.”
“Yeah, about that. How did you happen to be there?”
“I hate to admit it but I was on the other side this morning. All this killin’ doesn’t make much sense to me, never really has, but I had nowhere else to go ‘til I got to thinking, after leaving the fight, that maybe you’d take me in.” Roger said, not breaking eye contact with the taller man. “I’ve been following you all day. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Don’s people were lapping at your heels, so I just watched and waited for a chance to introduce myself.”
“Uh-huh, well, that was quite an introduction from what Clayton was saying. Why is it that you look so familiar to me?”
“Oh, I was with Don’s bunch when we met you outside the school a while ago. I was driving the truck with the heavy machine gun in the back.”
“Yup, that’s right. I appreciate what you did for my boys tonight. They got more guts than sense, I’m afraid, but they’d do anything for this bunch. Looks like you managed a wound as well,” the Chief said, taking his hand off the trigger guard long enough to point to Roger’s forehead.
“Stupid accident. Should’ve had my belt on; bounced my head off the dash.” The newcomer pushed his lower lip firmly up against his top, forming a strange little grin that gradually turned into a questioning smile. Roger was at least twice Farrell’s age, standing five foot nine inches tall, and his face clean-shaven with a prominent scar that ran at an angle below his right eye. His average build suited him, the beginning of a middle-aged potbelly forming around his middle. A dilapidated, multicolored hunting hat covered his thinning brown hair, South Dakota splashed across the front and the brim covered with blood. The boy’s ‘guardian angel’ spoke with more than just his mouth. His eyes were filled with emotion, delivering and emphasizing his message even before it crossed his lips. Perhaps it was that Roger reminded Farrell of his father, which gave the Chief pause, but such a friendship would gladly be received.
Farrell extended his hand in a welcoming handshake and said, “Never too late to see the light, Roger. We’re glad to have you as one of us. We don’t have many rules other than, be honest and put the needs of the community above your own. Think you can live by that creed?” the Security Chief asked.
“That sounds good to me.”
“Catch up to those two and have our medical officer clean you up.”
Roger jogged toward the front of the column looking for C&C, while Farrell walked to the truck, inventorying everything in his head that the trio had salvaged from the firefight. The Security Chief had a feeling about the newcomer, which he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but there was something about him that spoke of goodness. As the Sergeant walked along the convoy, stopping at each vehicle to see how the occupants were doing, he thought of the exchange with C&C. The pure lack of ‘self’ in their actions brought a prideful burning to his chest. Knowing such men in extraordinary times was surely a blessing. Perhaps the addition of Roger would turn out to be the same.
At the front of the column Farrell could see Gary holding a flashlight on Clayton’s face while Mel took a cotton swab to the miniature sized wounds. Nearby a woman was clutching Roger tightly and sobbing into his shoulder. Moving closer to fully comprehend what was happening, Farrell could hear Allison crying and repeating the words, “Thank you”, over and over again.
“What’s this?” Farrell asked, bumping Cory’s elbow with his own.
“Guess we weren’t the only ones Roger saved today. Allison says he’s the guy that shot one of Don’s men to save her life.”
“Well I’ll be . . . ” Farrell said, the feeling of assurance returning to him that Roger was indeed meant to be a part of their little band.
Ten minutes later, the group was prepared to move along into the mouth of the unknown. Farrell�
�s truck took the lead while Roger followed at the rear with his two new friends riding shotgun, literally, and for the first time in a very long time, Roger was able to smile.
Chapter 33
Between the low-lying foothills and the first sign of life, a long, rutted stretch of blacktop passed through cattails and marsh. The lead truck’s lights created a tunnel-like effect as the convoy rolled on. Farrell called a halt to the procession when, one mile ahead, the illuminated outline of a guard’s station could just be seen. Pulling a set of field glasses from the dash, he zoomed in on the position and those manning it. There were two men, both armed, one sleeping with his feet kicked up on a row of sandbags that lined a squared-in emplacement and the other sitting atop the bags, holding something steaming in the clasp of his hands. To the right of the station, a trailer home was fixed with a row of cinder blocks supporting the aluminum-encased building. The trailer’s axles were visible but the tires had long since been removed, an orange rust providing evidence of extended weather exposure. Two large lights, affixed to nearby telephone poles, fully lit the area but cast harsh shadows reaching out into the surrounding fields and road.
“Well?” Mel asked, sitting next to the Security Chief and reaching for the binoculars as Farrell finished with them. She surveyed the same scene, and then said, “You figure there are more people in the trailer?”
“Not sure, but I better approach them on my own in case we’re headed into trouble. Maybe I’ll be able to talk our way around it so there’s no more bloodshed,” the Sergeant said.
The Living Hunger Page 26