Sol Survivors

by Benton, Ken

  Joel and Sammy followed. Joel could tell it was all Sammy could do to keep from bursting out laughing.

  “Mr. Callaway,” Sammy said on the way, “may we call you by your first name, seeing as you are a dinner guest?”

  “Darnedest thing, son, I cannot for the life of me remember it. Might be Earl, or maybe Ed. Something with an E I think. Quite embarrassing, so if you would drop the mister and just call me Callaway I’d thank you.”

  “All right, Callaway. I’m Sammy and this is Joel. I must confess I find someone who says they haven’t walked in seven years to be walking as well as you are now … well, I view it as a bit of a miraculous claim.”

  “Glad you understand it so perfectly, Sammy.”

  * * *

  Joel knew Jessie would’ve acted over-the-top proud of him again for welcoming a demented vagabond. What Debra would think about it he initially had no idea, but whatever it was he probably preferred her reaction be different than Jessie’s.

  It was. But not in a way Joel expected. When the ratfink imposter was here, Jessie, who applauded the dinner invite so enthusiastically afterwards, didn’t take much active interest in the visitor himself. She supported his efforts in forming a neighborhood co-op, yes—but she knew she would have no work to perform in such a project, and her personal interactions with the man were lukewarm at best. There was a certain consistency in that behavior, coming more to light now. Back home, she often preached about “the rights of the poor.” Joel never saw her actually give a nickel, however, to any of the many homeless who populated the DC area. Jessie being “proud of” someone for acting more like her didn’t register to Joel as anything worthy of aspiration.

  Debra, by contrast, showed an authentic compassion for Callaway, even if the idea of him sharing the goat pen struck a distasteful chord with her. Joel was pretty sure she was mostly concerned for the goat.

  Joel presented his oddball guest with a choice of dispensable clothing after his shower, including a pair of heavy socks. Callaway managed to put together the items for his outfit which clashed the most. After using Joel’s electric razor and a hairbrush Joel subsequently slated for a long vinegar soak, Debra went to work on his nails. That was no easy project. Not only were they dirty, ingrown, dreadfully overgrown, and yellowish, but also crazy thick. Debra had to soak them and then use a pair of gardening clippers on the larger ones.

  It was his nails that lent a degree of credibility to Callaway’s still-dubious account of being bedridden and unconscious the last seven years, miraculously revived by the solar storm. He now believed he belonged to a mysterious order of chosen men sent out on a mission he had not fully discovered the purpose of yet.

  Then again, the whole thing could be another scam. After all, Joel had already been fooled once. He thoughtfully studied Callaway struggling with two hands to use his fork in peeling fried trout away from the bones at dinner.

  “Did these come out of the river or a lake?” Joel asked him.

  “I ought to know that,” Callaway said, “seeing as I’m a local resident and all. All I can tell you is it was too wide for a river and too narrow for a lake. The water did move in a slow southerly current.”

  Joel chewed a bite of fish. “Must have been a spot on the Clinch River where it widens. Trout are stocked there annually, so will probably be fished out soon. But there are good reproducing populations of bass, catfish, and pan fish in there, as well as in the nearby lakes it runs through.”

  “A man should know what’s happening in his neighborhood,” Callaway replied.

  Joel nodded, but after a minute he discerned that Callaway might have been making an unrelated comment, as his tone noticeably changed. Joel reached to grab a walkie-talkie from the counter to show him. It squawked with static as he lifted it.

  “We have a working communication system with the close neighbors to keep each other informed.”

  “That’s one direction, Joel. What about the other?”

  Joel set his fork down. Callaway continued taking small bites and chewing them slowly, unaffected by Joel’s ensuing glare.

  “Callaway, what did you mean when you said the Dunn house was ‘gathering’ against me?”

  “As you know, they are nocturnals there,” he responded. “Nocturnals feel a need to gather, for both practical survival purposes and social. They nourish a natural hostility towards us, even while often needing to steal our food. All part of loving darkness rather than light, I suppose. That house is a gathering place. You live next door. I can keep an eye on your farm at night from the goat pen. Already had all the sleep I need for quite some time.”

  Joel pointed the walkie-talkie at him. “I haven’t agreed to that yet. How do I know I can trust you? I mean, how do I know you’re not one of them, or, even if you aren’t, that you won’t run off with my goat in the middle of the night?”

  Callaway stopped chewing and stared back, gradually forming a sad face before replying.

  “I’m sorry, friend. I thought you understood.”

  “Understand what, exactly?”

  Callaway shook his head. “Too difficult for words. I suggest you go for a short walk while the sun is still in the sky. That should help clear your mind. But do take care to protect yourself, sir. I’m only here to help.”

  Callaway went back to eating, visibly sullen. Joel noticed Mick and Debra both now eating at a much slower pace themselves. Debra offered Callaway a glass of wine, an awkward gesture this late in the meal, especially since no wine was open or being consumed. He refused. Joel felt a tinge of remorse at saddening him, but was happy to not frivolously consume any of the wine.

  “All right, good idea.” Joel scooted his chair back. “Come on, Sammy. Let’s take that walk.”

  Sammy acted glad to leave the suddenly tense air around the table. Joel issued him the blunderbuss before strapping on the shoulder holster for his Glock, then covering with a lightweight jacket.

  “Do you think it’s possible he’s not completely off his rocker?” Sammy asked crunching the gravel out on the driveway.

  Joel finished his current thought before responding.

  “Sammy, right about now I’m finding myself entertaining all kinds of absurd-sounding suggestions. One thing I know is he is not bothered by sunlight, even with that ghost-white skin, and a lot of people a lot darker than him are. Those who are averse to the sun do appear to have turned nocturnal, as he stated, and they do seem to prefer each other’s company.”

  “Yeah,” Sammy said. “That’s kind of what I mean. And I feel like he was trying to tell us … something.”

  “I think he was telling us to go right.” Joel pointed to the end of the driveway where the gate project lay abandoned for the day. “And at least keep apprised of the outside conditions of the Dunn house. When I get advice like that, advice so sound I have to smack myself for not coming up with it on my own, I follow it, regardless of the mouth it emits from.”

  No one else came within eyesight as they hiked the uneven road. Joel estimated an hour of full daylight left. Within ten minutes, they came to the Dunn driveway.

  “Looks like maybe an extra lodger or two,” Joel said after passing it. “A couple more of the shack openings are closed up, I think. Can you imagine Jessie and Archer trading our comfortable rooms to sleep in those piss-poor stables?”

  “You didn’t see someone moving outside?” Sammy asked.

  “No. Did you?”

  “Not sure. Look closer around the garage when we go by again.”

  “Wait,” Joel said. “I want to check the sign.”

  They walked another hundred yards to the street sign, whereupon they verified it was still turned the wrong way.

  “All right,” Joel said.

  But Sammy squatted and pointed.

  “What is it?” Joel asked, instantly alarmed.

  “Tires. A vehicle parked behind the saplings there, with dead bushes wedged between them like someone is trying to conceal it.”

  Sammy too
k several duck-steps sideways.

  “Looks like a truck,” he said. “Looks like a … I don’t think you’re going to like the colors, boss.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  “Seems like I had an office job, too,” Callaway said with faraway eyes. “Unless it was one of my recurring dreams. Hard to tell. Either way, I recall not liking my boss, either.”

  Mick grinned and thought about Justice Janet Peterman for the first time in days. He wondered how she and the rest of the justices were getting on without clerks in their underground lair.

  “But you should respect your own service,” Callaway continued. “You are one of a small handful of people responsible for shaping the highest laws of our whole nation, even if it doesn’t feel that way from your perspective. I can say with confidence your influence has been stronger than you could realize, and it has been my honor to share a meal with you.”

  Debra hovered over the table with coffee refills. “He’s absolutely right, Mick. You are most impressive.”

  The smile Debra flashed him before putting the pot back radiated with charm. Mick felt an unquestionable chemistry with her since the day he arrived here. The fact she was maybe ten years older did nothing to reduce her allure; quite the contrary, in fact.

  But she was taken when Mick met her. And now that things had apparently been shaken up some, Joel beat everyone to the punch, having already swooped in to ignite the sparks of a possible new romance—at least according to Sammy, who admitted to having similar designs himself. Three bachelors and one highly-desirable bachelorette, not to mention the fact Archer’s walking papers had not yet been delivered. Mick knew where he stood in the pecking order. Still, if the situation arose where he moved up the ladder a rung, he was pretty sure he could…

  “Now listen,” Callaway said in an urgent tone.

  Mick refocused on him.

  “You need to be smart, young man. Keep the honor you have earned for yourself. In trying times, hard decisions must be made, some of which deserve reconsideration afterwards. A wise man understands the limits of his wisdom.”

  The porch suddenly thundered with stomping feet, announcing to the cabin that the current peace was about to be shattered. Mick and Debra jumped to attention as the front door swung open and banged against the wall. Joel entered with long strides, closely followed by Sammy, both breathing heavy.

  “Joel, what is it?” Debra said.

  “We all need to arm ourselves.”

  Joel vanished into his bedroom and shortly reappeared with a rifle case. By that time Sammy had the two rifles they used for target practice out of the hall closet, and a leather shoulder strap dangling from his mouth.

  “Callaway,” Joel said retrieving another gun case from under the living room couch. “I accept your tenant application. The goat pen is all yours, if you still want to stay.”

  Callaway remained seated with his coffee. “Thank you.”

  “Who’s out there?” Debra asked.

  “They’re here. The evil bastards came after us.”

  “Who? The U-Haul gang?”

  “Yes. Parked up by the Dunn house.”

  “How do you know it’s the same truck?”

  “I saw the license plate. Mick, take this.” Joel handed Mick the contents of the rifle case from his bedroom, a sleek semi-automatic weapon with a long, slightly-curved magazine. “Do you know what that is?”

  Mick turned the weapon around in his hands. “An AR-15?”

  “Correct. Shoot it the way you did the .22LR the other day, only you don’t need to reload the chamber between shots. Just pull the trigger again. It will have a little more kick when you fire it, is all. The safety switch is here.”

  Within another sixty seconds, a visibly-stunned Debra held a fresh 12-gauge shotgun, also making its first appearance.

  Joel looked back and forth between Mick and Debra. “You guys can trade if you like. Just protect yourselves, and the house.”

  “Where are you going?” Debra asked with unsuppressed concern.

  Joel checked the rounds in the magazine of his favorite rifle, then peered into the scope.

  “I’ve got to try to rescue Jessie and Archer.”

  “Joel…” Debra stammered. Mick watched her head turn to Sammy, who was finishing attaching the shoulder strap the .22LR rifle.

  “I’m going with him,” Sammy said as if reading her mind.

  Joel shook his head. “No, Sammy.”

  “That’s the most unconvincing ‘no’ you have ever given me. I’m coming, boss. That guy is also after me, and I don’t like the idea of sitting waiting for him to show.”

  “All right. As long as you do exactly what I say. Bring the blunderbuss again, too.”

  Joel vanished into the bedroom one more time and came out clutching a box of ammunition in one hand, an extra magazine for his rifle in the other, and what looked like a pair of night vision goggles hung around his neck.

  “I only have one pair of these,” he said holding the goggles up, “so if we have to stay out after dark—”

  A gunshot sounded from the direction of the Dunn house.

  “Dammit!” Joel stuffed one of his jacket pockets with cartridges, slipped the spare magazine in the other, zipped them both shut, and left the ammo box open on the kitchen counter. “Let’s get moving.”

  “The trees are your friend,” Callaway boomed, still seated.

  Joel looked Mick in the eye before leaving and motioned his head towards Debra. “Protect her, please.”

  Mick nodded.

  “Joel!” Debra said.

  Joel stopped in the doorway to face her.

  “Please be careful.”

  * * *

  Joel kept an eye on the open field as he and Sammy made their way to the near fence. Only minutes ago they scrambled home this same way, so it was unlikely anyone had gotten into the close trees yet. The sun still hung in the sky, if only by a few inches.

  “The trees are our friend,” Sammy muttered as they ducked to contort themselves back through the fence wire.

  “Keep your voice down like that,” Joel said. “Let’s try not to be visible from the road or the field. We should separate, though, so we can cover each other if needed. I don’t want you exposed to close-range fire. Your rifle is best deployed from a distance against a shotgun or handgun, which is all we have seen of their weaponry so far. At some point I’m going to have you hang back. I want you to shoot from a well-protected position providing good visibility, preferably at an enemy 40-60 yards away, giving me cover fire if I need it, and never have a need for the blunderbuss—which is only effective close-up, although it may be useful as a deterrent from longer distances.”

  “Where do you want me, boss?”

  “Closer to the road for now. Watch your step for rabbit holes.”

  They skulked forward through the ferns, Sammy on the road-side of the trees and Joel on the fence-side, hurrying across the occasional clearings. The sun began setting on the western horizon. A hundred yards before they reached the Dunn driveway, a knoll gave way to a clear view of the backside of the enemy stronghold.

  …And a clear view of a man running erratically across the field towards the back fence.

  “Is that one of them?” Sammy said in a hoarse voice above a whisper.

  Joel eyed the runner through his scope.

  It was. The redhead with the bandaged hand ran a pattern as wild as his hair, nearly tumbling several times, towards Joel’s property line as if he were being chased. He appeared unarmed.

  Joel lifted his head and quickly scanned the field all the way back to the house. No one chased him.

  That’s when the first shot fired.

  It came from a dense patch of brush and young trees ahead on Sammy’s side, knocking bark off a tree in front of Sammy.

  “Get down!” Joel yelled, crouching and looking for the perpetrator. Even a plume of smoke rising would tell him where to fire.

  Shots answered Joel’s voice from two di
rections, both aimed at Joel this time. He heard one bullet crack above his head and another crash through a sapling to his left, breaking it. The rounds fired at him were definitely something larger than 22 caliber.

  Joel was caught in a bad position. They must have seen him and Sammy coming, and probably sent the redhead out as a decoy. To escape the crossfire, Joel had no choice but to run ahead behind a grouping of three larger trees.

  Return fire from Sammy burst forth as Joel scurried. Good boy. But Joel now wished he’d given Sammy the AR-15.

  Joel made it to the new spot. He removed the cumbersome goggles from around his neck, set them down, braced the barrel of his .308 between two of the trees, and aimed towards a thick section of the brush that figured to make an inviting cover position. He put one round in there, low.

  Enemy fire resumed from the other direction as soon as he did, grazing the third tree trunk.

  Joel turned in time to see an adversary along the fence, forty yards ahead, standing aiming a rifle at him. It wasn’t the motorcycle rider. This guy wore a ski cap. He got another hurried shot off, wide and high this time, before rushing back into cover. Joel was unable to arrive at a satisfying shot placement and decided to save the round.

  But another blast came at him from the brush patch, buckshot this time, exploding the bark on two of the trees. Two different weapons were deployed against him from that spot, but Joel knew better than to conclude two different shooters resided there. The fact Joel had become their primary target despite Sammy’s position being an equal threat made Joel fairly certain of the identity of at least one them.

  That and the hair on the back of his neck.

  Sammy’s rifle fired again, two shots in reasonably fast succession for an amateur, upon which Joel seized the opportunity to run forward to a new position ten yards ahead, to the protected side of a rocky mound.

  As he reached it, he saw the one in the ski cap also on the move, this time running away from him towards the brush patch. Again that target moved too quickly for Joel to get a fix on him, especially with another shotgun blast covering his retreat.