Johnny had been able to get two cuttings of hay before things went south. If it was a mild winter he figured he could get his cattle and a small herd of horses through the winter. A rough winter would wipe him out. He had over thirty horses now and he decided the responsible thing to do was downsize.
He’d spread word through the community he was willing to trade horses for any type of supplies he might be able to use. Conor heard word of this through a neighbor and decided he would walk the seven miles to Johnny's house and discuss a trade with him. In better times, Conor would have picked up the phone and called but that was not a possibility now. He had to walk. He considered a bike ride but had no interest in pushing the contraption all the way back up the steep road home. If things went as planned this could be his last seven mile walk. He could ride back home on his horse leading a string of other horses. That was the plan.
The farm he was looking for was in the Whitewood area, all downhill from Conor's house. For most of the morning walk, he didn't see a solitary thing to concern him. He saw squirrels and songbirds. Once he thought he heard a deer but he never saw it. As enjoyable as the walk was, he was pleased when the land began to flatten out. He was close to his destination.
Conor found the mailbox with the last name Jacks on it exactly where he was told he would. He turned off the main road and walked up a gravel road to a cluster of barns, a riding rink, and a small frame house covered in white aluminum siding. An ornamental gate blocked the entrance to the narrow sidewalk leading to the house. Here in America, as in his own native country, he didn’t approach a country house without hailing from the road. This was especially important now that people were on guard.
"Hello inside. My name is Conor. I'm a neighbor come to talk to Mr. Jacks about some horses."
Conor unslung his rifle and leaned it against the fence, not wanting to appear threatening. He could see curtains moving in the gentle breeze through open windows. Certainly he’d been heard. He was preparing to repeat himself when the front door opened and a diminutive older lady in quaint clothing swung the door open and stepped onto the porch. She wore a denim skirt and a high-collared white shirt. An apron was tied around her waist. She carried a shotgun in her hand but held it to the side in the manner of the cautious but polite. Under current circumstances it was as customary a greeting as anyone might expect and Conor was not put off by it. He would have been more concerned for any elderly lady who opened the door to a stranger without a weapon.
"What did you say you name was?"
" Conor Maguire, ma'am."
“Whereabouts you from, Conor?"
Conor nodded in the direction from which he’d come. "The top of Jewell Ridge there. I live in the old coal company headquarters."
The lady he assumed to be Mrs. Jacks nodded. "I heard tell of you. No offense but you talk a little queer. That ain’t a Jewell Ridge accent I be hearing."
Conor laughed. A lot of the country folk around here, especially those who had lived most of their life without television and outside influences, spoke in the odd manner more traditional and similar to that of their forbearers. Their phrasing and word choice was not contemporary but likely as ancient as his own.
"I'm not a native of Jewell Ridge. I came here by way of North Carolina, and before that, Ireland."
Mrs. Jacks furrowed her brow and nodded, filing away the information. Over the course of her life she'd seen an albino deer once. She thought she'd seen UFOs on two different occasions and had seen a Bigfoot-type creature carry off one of their goats tucked under a hairy arm. This was her first Irishman. "That a fact."
"It is," Conor said agreeably. "I heard tell Mr. Jacks was hoping to trade off some horses. I’m in need of some."
"You'd have to talk to him about that."
"Hence my appearance on your doorstep, good lady. I was hoping to do so. Might he be around somewhere?”
Mrs. Jacks shook her head and Conor's heart sank. "Somebody cut the fence in one of our pastures last night to steal cattle. Every critter we owned walked off through the downed fence. Johnny is out with our two sons trying to round them up. They’re all we got. I have no idea when he’ll be back but I don't expect him soon. They have to track down the livestock and then repair the fence. Best come back another day."
Conor understood she was right but hated that he’d walked all this way for nothing. Of course it hadn't been completely for nothing. It was good exercise and he got to witness a beautiful morning. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do.
He smiled at the woman. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Jacks. Please tell your husband of my interest in the horses. I'm wanting four of them and I've got things to trade I’m certain he’d be interested in."
The lady nodded and smiled at him, raising a hand in a departing wave. "I'll pass it on. Are you agreeable for him to come calling on you? It’s a far bit easier for him to ride to you than for you to walk back down here again."
"Oh, I'd appreciate that very much," Conor said. "It's a half-day’s walk.”
Conor was disappointed that he was unable to get his horses but he was determined not to let it spoil his day. There was nothing that could be done about the turn of events. He threw a wave to Mrs. Jacks, shot her a smile, and exited out the gate. At least on the return journey he would get to see the backside of everything he missed on the way over.
The walk back home was entirely uphill and Conor was intent on showing it who was boss. He fought constantly in his daily life against aging and weakness. He pushed himself whenever he could, trying to stay as strong and sharp as he could. He set out at a brisk walk, wanting to get a good workout since his other goal, that of getting horses, had fallen flat.
He was a little over halfway home when he encountered a crying boy coming toward him on the road. The boy ignored Conor at first and didn't make eye contact. The kid looked around twelve or thirteen, possibly even a little younger. Conor couldn’t exactly walk by without asking him what was going on.
"Stop your crying, my boy. What’s the matter with you? What's wrong?"
At the sound of Conor's accent the boy's eyes widened. "Are you Mr. Conor?"
Conor smiled. "I am he. You can call me Conor. What's up with the squalling and snotting?"
"I was supposed to come find you. Ragus sent me."
Conor's brow furrowed. His mind raced. "Is Ragus okay?"
The boy bobbed his head to the affirmative.
"Then what's wrong, lad? Out with it.”
"He told me to tell you they kidnapped the girl, Barb. She’s his friend."
Conor's focus instantly narrowed to a single point on this boy's face. "Who kidnapped Barb? Tell me exactly what happened."
"Ragus and I were going fishing. We heard gunshots and something about it must not have sounded right because Ragus took off running. He ran to this house where he said his friend Barb was going. There were men there and they took her."
The boy got himself worked up again, starting to cry. Conor wanted to slap him across the face to sober him but he needed to be gentle here. It was the fastest way to get the information he needed and speed was critical.
"Did you know these men? Had you or Ragus ever seen them before?”
The boy shook his head.
"How many men?"
"I-I don't k-know," the boy stammered. "I didn't actually see them. Ragus made me hide in the woods. Then he came back and told me what was going on."
"Where's Ragus now?" Conor was becoming a little angry Ragus had sent this kid back to relay this story to him. If Ragus had seen the kidnappers, he should have been the one back here relaying the information. Where the hell was the boy?
"Ragus went after them,” the kid said.
That revelation shocked Conor for a moment, then he realized he probably shouldn't have been surprised at all. Ragus was that way. That was the type of person he was. Of course he went after them. The boy was untrained and had minimal firepower but still he pursued. He would have done it because it wa
s the right thing to do.
“When Ragus came back to you in the woods, what exactly did he say?"
"He told me Barb had been kidnapped by a group of men and he was going after them. He said he would leave a trail for you, and he told me to go straight to you and tell you."
Conor clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Thank you, son. You did a fine job. If you ever need anything, I’m in your debt. You know where to find me right?"
The boy nodded, backhanding his snotty nose.
Conor gave the boy another pat and took off running as hard as he could.
7
Conor was fortunate he had to pass his compound on his way across the mountain. He was already armed, of course, and he had a pack with gear, but he was not dressed for battle. Most days he entered his property by means of gate in the eight-foot tall chain link fence. When he reached the gate, he leaned over and removed a necklace containing several keys. He opened the padlock, hung it back in the hasp, and burst through the gate. He was sweat-soaked and breathing hard but focused with laser intensity.
Another key from the necklace let him into the main living quarters. As he ran through the entryway he began stripping off everything but the keys he carried around his neck. There was a welded steel cage in one part of the main living quarters. It had been a tool cage in one of the shops and Conor moved it in here as his primary weapons locker. In that cage, his full load-out from socks to helmet was ready to go.
He opened the lock and threw back the heavy door, hearing it rebound as it slammed loudly into the side of the cage. He gave himself a cursory drying with a t-shirt he yanked from a hanger. Throwing the damp t-shirt to the floor, he yanked on a pair of Under Armour underwear that came nearly to his knees. They were skin-tight, knee-length, and would prevent chafing from his sweat-soaked gear if this turned into a long slog.
He sat down on a stool and yanked on a pair of high merino wool socks, followed by a pair of multicam BDU pants. They were expensive Crye Precision gear, a gift from a friend who owed him a favor. He tugged on Reebok combat boots with zipper sides. His t-shirt was a moisture-wicking synthetic. He tucked it into his pants before fastening them and latching the buckle on the cobra belt.
The BDU shirt was also Crye Precision. When he slipped it on, he wrapped his battle belt around his waist. It was High Speed Gear and already loaded with magazine pouches, full magazines, an individual first-aid kit, a multitool, a fixed blade combat knife, and a Safariland holster with a Glock 17 riding in it. The plate carrier was also High Speed Gear and also completely ready to go. He dropped it over his head, latched the side buckles, fastened all the Velcro straps, and then attached it to his battle belt. Though he sometimes trained with an empty plate carrier, this one was ready to go with level IV ceramic plates.
He unhooked an Eberlestock Gunslinger backpack from the wall. It was fully loaded with everything he needed for exactly this situation. He’d always hoped this day would never come but that didn't mean it wouldn't, so he chose to be ready. He grabbed a bump helmet off a hook with a PVS-14 night vision device mounted and ready to go. Conor wasn't wearing the helmet now so he hooked it to the pack and then stood in front of the rifle rack. He kept three weapons ready to go at all times. There was a suppressed submachine gun in 9 mm, a medium-range AR with an illuminated low-power scope, and a precision sniper rifle.
Conor had no idea how far he would have to go or how long he’d be on the road. Medium-range seemed the way to go. He clipped the rifle to his single-point sling and slipped on the pack. It already contained everything he’d need. It was set up for just such an emergency as this–grab and go. There was food, water, shelter, and ammunition.
He backed out of the cage and locked the door behind him. He ran to the front door and locked it also, sprinting across the yard. He went through the chain-link gate and replaced the padlock, then set out at the fastest run he could manage in full gear. He couldn’t remember how many miles it was to JoAnn’s house. Six? Seven? That would be two 5k runs done back to back. Best not to think about it.
Just run.
Despite frequent training, Conor could not recall having done anything like this run in a long time. He trained with sandbags, with cinderblocks, he sparred with his daughter, and he did all manner of cross-training, but running down a paved road with a full pack was an animal unto itself. His feet pounded the pavement, jarring his old knees and reminding him of every ache, every pain, the years had inflicted on him. Every old injury reared its ugly head and reminded him of its existence. But pain didn’t mean stop. It meant dig in. It meant focus.
Although the fact he was running downhill worked to his benefit, it amplified the bone-jarring shock his body experienced with each step. It took him exactly an hour and thirteen minutes to reach JoAnn’s house. He slowed at the wide cattle gate that opened onto the road. It was never left open like this. A glance at the ground showed him the hoof prints of an entire herd of horses. It was impossible to tell how many riders there’d been. Some of the prints revealed odd shoes that appeared to be homemade. He crouched and touched one. It was scored like rebar. Perhaps these men were having to make their own horseshoes.
He slung his weapon back to high-ready and moved efficiently through the gate. He trained his gun on the house but heard nothing. Flattening himself against the wall, he moved as quickly as he could to the rear of the house and popped his head around the corner. There were bodies in the garden. His heart sank.
Conor raced to the garden and saw the first body. It was an old man. He was fairly certain this was JoAnn’s father. He thought he recognized the man from seeing him in the yard or sitting on the front porch in better times. He had taken a gunshot to the chest and was dead.
There were two more men lying in a different part of the garden whom Conor had never seen. They wore clean, fairly expensive outdoor clothing, had good hygiene, and clearly bathed regularly. Wherever they’d come from, they had the resources to care for themselves. While not fat, they were well-fed, which was a rarity these days. Both men had multiple gunshot wounds, including one to the head. Their manner of death had Barb written all over it. She always liked to add that last, Mozambique-style shot to the head before calling the job done.
He scoured the ground frantically. It had been trampled by many feet. It was hard to decipher the scene. One possibility was that she’d engaged the two men after catching them in the act of killing JoAnn’s father, then was overpowered and taken prisoner. The most important information gleaned from the scene was there was no blood spilled that was not attributable to the three corpses. He hoped that meant she was uninjured.
Before fleeing the scene, Conor made a quick pass through the dwelling. The back porch and kitchen were covered, prepared for canning, which was consistent with Barb’s plans. Inside, Conor found a neat home that was well cared for despite current conditions. There was no one inside.
Conor burst through the front door, crossed the yard, and ran down to the road. He took a moment to confirm the direction he thought the kidnappers had taken, then started running. He pushed the bite valve of his hydration bladder into his mouth, feeling like he should take a drink. The idea of drinking made him nauseous. He rinsed his mouth and spat to avoid swallowing the water. He returned his focus to his breathing and ran as hard as he could. It was true. Someone had taken his baby girl.
8
Ragus fell into a steady running pace on the trail of the horses. He held no illusion that he would outrun and overtake the horses. It wasn’t even likely he could rescue Barb unless something just short of a miracle occurred. His plan was to try to stay on their trail and mark it for Conor. If he could find a way to slow the kidnappers down it would be even better.
The boy was no stranger to running and working out. This past school year had been his first as a wrestler. He’d started the year with a lot of anger bottled up inside of him after his mother's cancer diagnosis. It left him with a hair trigger temper and a chip on his shoulder.
; One day at school a kid named Eustis pulled his trigger by making fun of his name and he got in a fight. That happened a lot, kids making run of his name because it was unfamiliar to them. This particular kid seemed to know where it came from and he insisted on making an issue of it. Ragus wanted to end the fight before the loudmouth spread the word from one of the schools to the other.
Eustis may have been full of testosterone but Ragus was full of hate. He wanted to shut that kid’s mouth and he wanted him to be scared to open it again. Ragus threw the first punch, catching the kid totally by surprise. He’d expected Ragus to be scared, but he held so much hate anymore that he had no room for fear. He dominated the fight until they were separated.
The teacher who pulled him to the office was also the wrestling coach and during that short trip to the office convinced Ragus he should join the team. The coach admitted he'd probably allowed the fight go on a little longer than he should have because he was so impressed by Ragus’ natural ability. He wanted to see what he was capable of.
Once on the wrestling team, Ragus started working out in the mornings and evenings with the team, which included long runs to increase their stamina and endurance. A friend of his mother’s was driving her to her treatments so Ragus was home for long periods of time by himself. The workouts gave him something to focus on, a much-needed distraction. It gave him an outlet for the anger and frustration.
Once the world fell apart, Ragus had no way to get to summer practices. He had no idea if they were going on or not. They took wrestling pretty serious at his high school and he could easily imagine the coach telling the wrestlers that the collapse of modern civilization was no reason for not showing up to practice. It was also harder to eat well so he’d lost some of the bulk gained from weightlifting. His stamina and his ability to run had not been impaired, though, and it was a damn good thing.
The Mad Mick: Book One of The Mad Mick Series Page 5