Blood Bought: Book Four in The Locker Nine Series

by Franklin Horton

  "Brandon!" he called. He unfastened the gate and slipped through, then called Brandon's name again before heading directly to the position where he’d left the young man.

  By way of a response, Robert received a sharp whistle and a wave as Brandon stood up. It was a relief. Robert hadn’t been gone that long and Brandon was more than capable of taking care of himself but he was a valuable asset. Robert hated to take his eyes off of him. He jogged over and grabbed two bags, letting his rifle dangle from the sling. Brandon did the same with his own weapon, draping a large load of gear onto his shoulders and back.

  Robert took off on the short run to pitch his load onto the flat bed of the truck. He’d overestimated his abilities. The excitement at getting home had helped mask the pain of his injuries. Bearing the weight of heavy gear, he could feel every ache and pain wrack his body. He struggled to get to the truck without having to set one of the bags down.

  He was on his way back to Brandon’s hide when he passed the younger man loaded down like a mule but strolling as easily as if he were out for a walk on a sunny day. Robert couldn’t go easy on himself. He got the remainder of the gear and was returning to the truck when he met Brandon coming toward him.

  "I got it," Robert puffed through gritted teeth.

  "You sure?" Brandon asked.

  Robert nodded, his face bright red. Robert was determined he would not accept help with his burden, even if it killed him. With Robert toting the last of the gear, Brandon brought up the rear, his weapon high, scanning for threats.

  "Any company while we were gone?" Robert asked.

  "No one," Brandon said. "I wondered if the chopper might draw attention but I didn’t see a soul."

  "I think a lot's happened here since I left," Robert said. "I don't know who’s home or who’s alive."

  "That’s intelligence we probably need,” Brandon said. “We need to know everything about this area of operations before the party gets going."

  "Agreed."

  They reached the truck and Robert’s arms were trembling, his back wracked with pain. He did his best to hide it. Brandon helped him pile the gear onto the flatbed of the truck.

  "Grace, this is Brandon. Did you guys meet back at the compound?"

  Grace took in the young man with the short hair. "I'm not sure. There was a lot going on and I didn’t get many names."

  Brandon nodded and ducked his head into the cab to give Grace a short wave. "Good to meet you, Grace. If you guys don't mind, I think I’ll ride in the back."

  Robert responded with a nod, hopping into the cab, and slamming the door. Brandon set his rifle in the bed of the truck then climbed onto the aluminum bed. He pounded a hand on the back glass to let them know he was good, then settled in for the ride. Grace made a U-turn and headed back the way they had come.

  The entire thing went as smooth as anyone could have hoped.

  4

  At the Hardwick farm Robert made hasty introductions. Brandon was polite but businesslike. It was evident he was a man unused to socializing and that his mind was already actively assessing the security of the farm. He made eye contact with each person he was introduced to, but once that contact was made, his eyes systematically scanned everything around him. He was a tactical computer, programmed with a particular skill, and the terrain, his surroundings, were the data he required to make computations.

  Seeing he was eager to get to work, Robert wanted to show Brandon around but he needed to talk to his wife. He hadn’t told her what was going on yet and she needed to know.

  "Grace, can you and Tom show Brandon around?" he asked. "I want to bring your mother up to speed."

  "Can I go to?" Sonyea asked. "I'd like to get a handle on my new surroundings."

  "Of course," Robert said.

  "Then let's do this," Brandon said. "I just need a place to stow my gear before we go. I don't need much in the way of accommodations. A barn, a shed, or anyplace out of the weather and I'll be cool. I’ve even got a tent with me if you don’t have space under a roof."

  "Absolutely not!" Theresa said. "I don't stick my guests in the barn like livestock. We have couches, cots in the basement, and numerous other more comfortable choices."

  Brandon smiled at Theresa. “Thank you, ma'am. I’m sure whatever you have will be fine."

  Robert could tell by the look on Brandon’s face that he was simply being polite. The young man had no intention of sleeping on the couch with a looming threat. It wasn’t how he operated. He was choosing his battles, though, and didn’t want to come off rude.

  "Where do we need to go?" Tom asked. “What do you want to see?”

  Brandon scratched his head. “There's a couple of points along the road beyond the boundaries of your property that I'd like to get a look at. I don't mind to walk but what’s your battery capacity like? Would a truck be better?"

  Tom pushed a button on the chair and saw that he was down to a little more than thirty-percent battery life. “I probably need to put this on charge. I don’t like it to get too low."

  "Then we’ll take a truck if you guys can spare one," Brandon said. "We can cover more ground in less time. We might even be able to get some defensive measures in place today."

  Theresa’s face clouded. "I'm clearly missing something," she said. "Why do we need increased security measures?"

  “I was about to get into that,” Robert said. He threw his arm over his wife’s shoulder and led her off toward the house, followed by Leslie and the two boys. "Leslie, if you don't mind, keep an eye on the boys while I speak to Theresa alone for a moment. Maybe they could play in the front yard or something."

  Leslie nodded. "No problem. I think I heard the porch swing calling my name anyway."

  Tom drove his chair to the porch and hooked it up to the solar charger. He got in the wheelchair that he and Grace picked up that morning. He wheeled back to the truck, then transferred over into the front seat. He put on the seatbelt and positioned his weapon where he could get to it if he needed it.

  "I prefer to ride in the back," Brandon said. "I’ll get a better feel for the land that way. When you pull out of the property, turn left and head down the road. When we get to the right spot, I'll let you know. There’s a couple of places where I want to get out and look around. Okay?"

  "Got it."

  Sonyea slid into the middle of the musty cab and sat beside her son, patting him on the leg. "It feels like forever since I've seen you."

  Tom smiled at his mother and gave her another hug. She wore a grin from ear to ear. Tom had worried about his mother but he hadn’t realized until that very moment just how much he missed her too. Until the last weeks, since he’d choppered up here with Grace, his mom had been his constant companion, and perhaps even his best friend.

  Grace slid into the driver’s seat, laid her weapon across the dashboard, and started the old diesel truck.

  Brandon slung his weapon and retook his position against the headache rack, the steel cage that protected the back of the cab from sliding cargo. Grace eased down the bumpy driveway just as she had when they went to pick up Brandon. At the end of the driveway, Grace turned as Brandon had instructed and drove as far as the home of their nearest neighbor, nearly a mile down the road. They turned there and Brandon had her creep along in the opposite direction until they reached another cluster of homes. There, Brandon had her turn again.

  They returned to the entrance to the Hardwick property and Grace killed the engine. Brandon hopped off the flatbed and Grace got out too. Sonyea chose to stay in the cab and reconnect with her son.

  "The biggest advantage you have out here is all of these big ass trees on the shoulder of the road. I don’t think I would bother with trying to dig ditches across the road. It would be a heck of a lot simpler just to drop some of these trees. You guys have a chainsaw, right?"

  Grace nodded. "Several. We burn a lot of wood.”

  "In just a couple of hours we could move up this stretch of road and drop a couple of dozen trees in
a manner that would serve as a pretty good barrier to vehicle traffic. As tall as these trees are, if we leave them hinged at the base they won’t be easy to drag out of the way. They’ll fall between other trees on the opposite shoulder and be locked in place. An intruder’s only choice would be to cut them up in small pieces to remove them and that would take a lot of time. We’d also probably hear it. My vote would be for cutting down trees all the way to your entrance. We’ll do the same thing right here, dropping more trees across the entrance and for a short distance up your driveway."

  “I think we have time to do that today, if you’re up for it,” Grace said after a quick check of her watch. “Should we get on it?"

  Brandon smiled. “I like that attitude. No time like the present. I think we’d all sleep better knowing it was done," he said. “How many saws do you have?"

  "Three, I think,” Grace said.

  “I can run one," Sonyea offered from the cab of the truck. “I’ve done it for years.”

  "I can't saw but I can sharpen," Tom said.

  "I’m comfortable with a saw too," Grace said. “And there’s my dad, also.”

  "Good then. Sounds like we’ve got a starting point. Our first line of defense. Let’s get this taken care of and then we’ll see what else we can do to harden your property."

  The group returned to the barn. They located three chainsaws and a two-gallon can of fuel mix. Robert walked down to join them and they piled the chainsaws, the gas, a couple of heavy chains, an ax, and a toolbox with chainsaw tools on the flat bed of the truck. Robert was anxious for some physical labor to help him relax. Though he’d split wood and helped out around Arthur’s place there was nothing like exhausting physical labor.

  And he got it.

  In less than an hour everyone was sweat-soaked from the late summer humidity. Thick flakes of sawdust clung to their arms, faces, and clothing. Cutting wood could be brutal under ideal conditions and these were not ideal conditions. This was not the time of year that most people chose to cut firewood in the central Appalachians. They usually cut in the winter or spring, when the vegetation wasn’t an issue and the snakes were laying low. At this time of year the weeds were bothersome, with blackberry vines tearing at any exposed flesh and stinging nettles spreading their love. Despite the discomfort, everyone maintained a good attitude and worked steadily.

  The tall roadside trees that Brandon spotted were a mixture of hemlocks and Appalachian hardwoods like poplar, maple, and oak. For safety, they worked in pairs of one cutter and one spotter. That way if the tree started taking an odd fall there was somebody there to call out a warning. Every one of them had cut down trees on their own before without such precautions, but safety was more important now. There was no ambulance and no hospital to provide advanced medical care if one of them screwed up. Getting crushed was certain death.

  They took frequent breaks to drink from water bottles they'd refilled at the house. Water was unlikely to be an issue for them no matter how many people were staying there. Besides a spring that flowed year round, they had a Simple Pump system for the well. It was powered off solar most of the time but could also be operated from a hand pump if the electric pump failed. Even using the hand pump, they could pressurize the plumbing in the house so that sinks and toilets worked.

  In three hours they’d created dozens of foreboding stacks of downed trees. These would surely be a deterrent to any marauder attempting an approach by vehicle. Each stack looked like it would require days of work with a crew of men, chainsaws, and winches just to get by. If they went to all that trouble, there would just be another stack waiting on them a short distance ahead. It would be a daunting effort. It wouldn’t stop an attack by foot but it would probably limit any other means of assault.

  The group worked its way backwards, starting at the farthest points and working their way backward. They didn’t want to paint themselves into a corner and trap their own vehicle between two log piles. Even with careful planning, tired and stressed people could make poor decisions.

  When the truck at last stood at the entrance to the Hardwicks’ driveway, there was nowhere they could go but homeward. If they wanted to get off the property now they had to use an ATV or access the logging road on their neighbor’s property. There were no cleared public roads leading to their home. It was a drastic step but necessary.

  They backed the truck up the driveway to a safe spot. With this done, they dropped a couple of trees right across the entrance. Using an ax and saw, they cut small branches and added them to the stack. Done in a random but artistic fashion, this nearly camouflaged the entrance to the property. It looked like trees had fallen in a storm and been pushed to the side by the highway department. Only someone examining the cuts would see that they were made recently. As the crowning touch, Robert rocked loose the family's mailbox and pulled it from the ground. He placed it in the bed of the truck, hoping there might be a day soon when he could replant it. When life had again returned to normal.

  Weary and sweat-soaked but satisfied with their effort, the group piled into the truck. Grace drove with Tom riding shotgun. They stopped at the barn and dropped off all the tools just in case they needed the truck for something else that night. Robert removed the mailbox from the truck and propped it against the barn. It stood there as a stark reminder of the disjointed and strange times, a totem of rituals like mail delivery that no longer existed.

  They arrived at the house to find Theresa had cooked a huge dinner in honor of the reunion. When he entered the kitchen, Robert teared up at the smell of the food in the familiar kitchen. Then there was the sight of his family gathered in the kitchen, a room that had seen so many of the highs and lows of his family. It was where they celebrated birthdays, applied band-aids, did homework, and performed so many of the little, immaterial tasks that, in their entirety, made a family a family. That made a home a home.

  This meant everything to him. It was too much. In his weariness, the ability to resist the tide of emotions was impaired. More tears flowed. He pulled a bandanna from his pocket and wiped at his face. This was why he’d been so focused on getting here. This was why he’d been so frustrated with the people around him at Arthur’s place. It was the longing for this moment.

  "I think I got sweat in my eyes," he said, rushing from the kitchen. "I need to go wash my face. I'll be right back."

  No one called attention to his loss of composure. If they saw it, they understood.

  5

  The procession north from Arthur Bridges’ compound had not been an easy one for Congressman Honaker’s small army. There had been two violent encounters at roadblocks where people were preying on desperate travelers. One situation had been resolved peaceably with a small bribe but the second had gone sideways, resulting in an ugly gunfight.

  During their effort to take Arthur’s compound, the families had been safely situated away from the action. Protected by a detail of armed guards, they were sheltered from much of the brutality the rest of the world was experiencing. For them, the apocalypse had been nothing more than an extended camping trip. They were unprepared for the sudden eruption of violence on the road but they had been spared none of it. When the bullets started flying, the women and children had seen people die. They’d heard the screams of the wounded. Even though it ended quickly, it left a lasting impact.

  Another night on the road, taking shelter in a roadside park, they’d been ambushed in the middle of the night. Their sizable force, outfitted with night vision and superior weaponry, had deterred the attack but they lost two men. Several vehicles had been shot up, one to the point they were forced to abandon it. This attack had shaken the group to its core, forcing them to understand that they were not safe anywhere on the open road—not driving, not parked, not sleeping. They understood more than ever that this was not a camping trip. This was a life or death mission and death gained ground on them every day.

  Increasingly, all of his party were looking to the congressman for answers. He was their l
eader. He had brought them here. Despite being the man so full of promises when the grid fell, he had no answers for them now. The existence of a survival compound in Damascus, Virginia, at Robert Hardwick's home, was pure speculation on his part. Just because the man was friends with Arthur Bridges and wrote post-apocalyptic books didn’t mean he was outfitted for the apocalypse.

  He could simply be some nerdy writer living in a condo and getting his survival information from the internet. It was possible he lived with his mother and a cat in a snooty subdivision ruled over by a homeowner’s association. Maybe he didn’t even live in Damascus. It could be old information or simply made up. Did anyone even check if the author bio on the back of books was true? It was unlikely there was some ethical standard requiring truth and full disclosure in that little text box. Maybe Robert Hardwick wasn’t even his real name.

  If the congressman got to Damascus and found nothing he had no idea what he would do. He fully expected his men would turn on him at that point, probably with the support of all the families. His days as the leader of this group would be over. If that happened, the best he could hope for would be to look for some abandoned home where he and his family could hide out and survive the coming winter. One thing was certain though. Due to deteriorating conditions and their dwindling fuel supply they could not travel the roads much longer. Wherever they ended this push would likely be their final stop on the journey.

  On their third day on the road they crossed the Tennessee/Virginia line on Route 91. The road followed a narrow valley with few places to halt a caravan of their size. They eventually ended up in the parking lot of a large modern church. It was more exposed to the road than any of them would have liked but it was all they found. If they passed it up they might have to drive all the way to Damascus before they found another opportunity to stop. They weren’t ready for that yet. They needed more information, or at least a plan.