Blood Bought: Book Four in The Locker Nine Series

by Franklin Horton

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see anyone around.”

  “So that makes it alright to mess with my stuff?” His face was angry, red beneath a scruffy beard.

  “I wasn’t messing with it. I didn’t touch anything.”

  “Whatever,” he said. “Just leave it alone and go away.”

  She spun and scurried off, reaching the end of the trestle before she stopped in her tracks. Why was she listening to him? Why was she running away in fear just because he told her to? He wasn’t her man. She didn’t even know him. He had no right to talk to her that way. This was her town. He was just some outsider who thought he had a right to do what he wanted because he had a backpack on. She hated people who felt they were entitled, mostly because she’d never felt that way in her life.

  To her right, where the trestle ended on the creek bank, there was a stack of river rocks. A fury building inside her, she hefted one the size of a volleyball. She should go back there and drop it on his head. That would show him. He’d see that he couldn’t talk to her that way. She started to put it back in the pile but stopped herself.

  If she stole his pack, he’d chase her and probably catch her. She couldn’t run with the bulky thing on her back. What would he do then? Beat her like Paul did? She couldn’t allow that. Maybe if she could drop the rock on him and injure him he wouldn’t be able to chase her.

  She walked as quietly as she could, hoping she wouldn’t draw his attention. When she was above him, she held back, hoping the trestle hid her from his view. She tried to steel her nerves. What if she missed? What would he do then? She’d just have to run like hell and hope he didn’t catch her.

  Before she could stop herself, she rushed to the railing above his head and hefted the rock onto the uppermost board. She aligned herself like a bomber honing in on a target and pushed the rock over the edge. The hiker must have heard something because he looked upward at the last moment. He had no time to react. The heavy rock caught him in the side of the head and he went down, tumbling into the water.

  Debbie watched him for a moment to assess his level of injury, wanting to know how fast she had to run in order to stay ahead of him but he didn’t move. A crimson plume fluttered from his head, trailing off downstream. His eyes were open, accusing. She’d killed him. She processed this for just a moment, deciding she was okay with it.

  She went back to his pack and attempted to sling it onto her back. She failed miserably. In fact, she could barely lift the thing. Perhaps she could lighten it later but for now she was interested in getting away from the scene of the crime. She didn’t want to be found here in the obvious act of stealing the pack from a man she’d just killed. She managed to lift it up the side railing, one board at a time, until it reached a height that allowed her to slip her arms into the straps.

  The pack was adjusted for someone taller and more muscular than her. It hung awkwardly down her back and she couldn’t straighten out for fear of toppling over backward. She leaned forward and shook her body, trying to wiggle the pack into position. When she got it higher on her back, it pushed her forward and she staggered across the width of the trestle, catching herself against the opposite railing. This was going to be dangerous. She might kill herself just trying to walk with the stupid thing. She wouldn’t be able to put off culling the contents for very long.

  When she found a point where she felt balanced, she staggered away toward town. Once she put some distance between her and this body she was going to get off the trail and find a place to lay low. There she’d go through the thing and toss out all the heavy crap she didn’t need. She’d also have to find some way to tighten up those shoulder straps. She needed to make this look like it was her pack. She could pull this off, and as long as no one asked any detailed questions, she might get away with it.

  Debbie had barely gone a mile when her legs were quivering and she began staggering. She stumbled and lost her balance, face planting in the gritty cinder trail, the enormous pack smearing her into the ground like she’d been tackled. The weight of the loaded backpack was too much for her. She was a frail thing. She didn't eat right, never exercised a day in her life, and anything that required effort almost immediately made her give up.

  She cried out from the fall, then just cried from everything else. She untangled herself, then wriggled out from beneath the pack. She sat up in the middle of the trail, exhausted and sobbing. When her tears cleared she noticed a break in the foliage ahead and to the left. She got to her feet, took a dozen unsteady steps in that direction, and peered through the dense weeds. She spotted a secluded campsite a short distance off the trail.

  She returned to the pack and grabbed it by the shoulder strap, tugging it awkwardly through the dirt, alternately swearing, crying, and gasping for breath. When she reached the cleared tent site she collapsed on the ground, lying flat on her back, and trying to get herself together. It was several minutes before she felt able to sit up. When she did, she regarded the pack. The damn thing was a blessing and a curse at the same time.

  Only then did it reenter her mind that she’d killed a man to obtain that particular blessing. She experienced no remorse. It didn’t particularly bother her. After all, he had been rude to her. He wasn’t a very nice person and, given enough time and the opportunity, he probably would have hurt her just like everybody else in her life did. He'd gotten what he deserved.

  Reinvigorated by fresh anger at her victim she unbuckled the lid and released the toggle that allowed the drawstring top to expand. That took her a moment. She was unfamiliar with that type of hardware. With the top of the pack opened, she peered inside, but things were so tightly packed she couldn’t tell what anything was. Much of what she saw was in little drawstring bags made of bright fabric and none of them were labelled. With some effort, she upended the pack and dumped all the contents onto the ground.

  She went through every single compartment and pocket on the entire pack. She made certain she’d dumped out all the contents and the pack was completely empty, planning to reload it and keep only the things she needed. The first thing she threw away was the tent. She had no intention of sleeping in a tent. There were plenty of abandoned houses and empty cars around.

  She threw away all of the clothing with the exception of a fancy waterproof jacket and a flannel shirt. The rest of it was men's clothing that was way too large for her. Most of it stunk horribly and she couldn’t imagine wanting to put it on her body. There was a multitool and she shoved it in her pocket. It had a knife but it wasn’t very impressive, nor was it easy to open. If she was depending on it to save her life in a fight she was pretty much screwed.

  She kept the freeze-dried food, snacks, the cooking gear, and a little bottle of Southern Comfort. She threw away a map, a GPS, the man’s cellphone, a battered Steven Bird paperback, and an inflatable mattress. None of it was crap she wanted or needed. When she was done, she pulled the pack onto her back and this time she almost cried at the improvement. It didn’t weigh much at all. As much as she hated to walk, this would be manageable.

  She saw a small mirror in the toiletries she’d dumped from an orange drawstring sack. She bent and picked it up, then looked at herself. She looked rough. She was dirty and her face was tear-streaked, her hair stringy and knotted. She almost looked like a hiker. She pulled a bandana from the pile of discarded items and wrapped it around her head kerchief-style. When she looked at herself again in the mirror, she was perfect. She looked like any of the thousand other hiker girls that strolled through Damascus every year.

  She set out on the trail again with renewed enthusiasm, feeling a lot better with the lighter pack. It wasn’t long before she realized her next vulnerability was her footwear. While most hikers wore hiking boots or trail running shoes, Debbie wore a cheap pair of Dollar Store tennis shoes. She wasn't wearing any socks either, which was typical of her. Her shoes had already worn blisters on several toes and the heels of both feet. In fact, the white canvas at the back of each shoe was ting
ed pink with a mixture of her sweat and blood.

  She walked a few increasingly painful miles in the shoes, reaching the Taylor's Valley community just as it was getting dark. Sounds and smells were the dominant senses. She could hear the roar of the violent creek and the thrum of cicadas filling the hillsides. She could smell the smoke from the campfires flickering at points beyond the creek. She assumed people were gathered around the fires cooking, talking, and keeping watch.

  They were probably keeping watch for people like her, people they considered bad people. People who stole, who killed. People who made decisions because of the drugs they were using. Hell, she couldn’t blame them. Even she didn’t trust people like herself.

  Debbie walked as quietly as possible, trying to stick to the shadows and keep a low profile. She wanted no contact with these people. She didn’t welcome their questions or their looks. She didn’t want to fall under the gaze of their accusing, judgmental eyes. There was a functioning headlight in the pack but she didn't want to use it. As much as she feared the dark, she didn’t want the attention that the glowing beacon on her head might draw.

  Just past Taylor’s Valley, she decided it was better to hole up for the night than to continue walking in the dark. She spotted a mobile home off to itself, the yard backing up directly against the trail. Not seeing any lights in the house, she slithered through a barbed wire fence and made her way to a leaning shed built of sawmill lumber. The door gave an agonizingly loud creak when she tugged it open, then dropped off its hinges, clattering noisily against the building.

  She held her breath, hoping no one was around to hear, but a dog immediately started barking. When she heard voices, she had no choice but to flee back to the trail. She’d already been shot at once and didn’t want to repeat the experience. She snagged her shirt, then her back, while trying to rush through the strands of rusty barbed wire. The surface of the trail reflected a different color in the failing light and she ran, hoping she didn’t trip or fall.

  She assumed there might be another opportunity, another such structure before long. It didn’t come. Soon she re-entered the national forest, a secluded part of the trail with no homes near it. When the trail ran alongside the creek, she was forced to use the headlamp, afraid that she’d step off into the rushing black water. The light only made her more scared.

  She became aware that any noise reaching her from beyond the range of her light sounded louder and scarier than it had before. Some of these noises she recognized but others she didn’t. Debbie imagined the worst, having watched too many horror movies while being way too impressionable. She imagined the creatures that were truly possible, such as bears, coyotes, wolves, wild boar, and red wolves. She also imagined those things that were unlikely but that she could still not push from her mind such as werewolves, vampires, zombies, evil spirits, and chupacabras.

  When her light revealed a smaller trail branching off into the woods she spotted a creekside campsite. Before venturing off the trail she played her light over it and saw no signs of danger, no creatures real or imaginary. She cautiously climbed off the trail and descended to the clearing by the water. She was pleased to find that the roar of the creek drowned out many of the scary night noises, creating an effect like sleeping with the windows open on a rainy night. She might be able to do this after all.

  Debbie got the raincoat out of the backpack, stretched it out on the ground, then spread the sleeping bag on top of it. Even though the sleeping bag overhung it on both ends, it made her feel better to have the barrier under it. She climbed into the sleeping bag and nervously counted down from ten, building her courage. When she reached one, she clicked the light off, leaving herself in total blackness. She knew it was only a matter of time before something pounced on her. She waited for the sharp claws and pointy teeth. Although she didn’t know which creature would take her life she was too tired to care.

  Let them come.

  7

  Despite maintaining an overnight watch, Congressman Honaker did not sleep well in the church parking lot. It was too close to the road. He awoke at every pop of the fire, every call of a night bird, and sometimes for no reason at all other than the random fear that crept into his sleep like frigid, rising water. When he finally detected the light changing outside of his blinds he rose quietly and slipped into his clothes. As a man used to wearing expensive, clean, and neatly-pressed clothes every day it bothered him to be wearing clothes that were smudged and perhaps smelling of sweat. He was always conscious of his image and his image required he always look at the top of his game.

  He awkwardly fastened on a gun belt of olive drab webbing. He was not accustomed to wearing a handgun, nor was he entirely comfortable with modern weapons in general. He’d grown up hunting and shooting as a kid. He’d also gone on a lot of hunting trips as a politician, but those weren’t really hunting. Someone took him to game, pointed him in the right direction, and stood around while he took his shot. After that, he’d return to a comfy lodge to drink while someone prepared his kill for him.

  This nervousness around firearms was another reminder of just how far he’d gotten from his roots. His dad and grandfather would probably be a little disappointed at how he’d turned out. His grandfather in particular was fond of calling politicians panty-waists, and he’d probably use that term to describe how his grandson turned out. Congressman Honaker built what most would refer to as an amazing legacy for himself but he knew there were a few bodies buried along the way. His rise to power had not been accomplished without soiling his hands a little. There were things he’d done he wasn’t proud of. Things he’d never tell anyone.

  When every hair on his head was in place, he exited his RV and latched the door quietly behind him. Around the campfire the last shift of his perimeter security sat talking quietly with the men who’d returned from the recon operation in the town of Damascus. The congressman wandered over to the fire and held his hand over the warmth.

  "When did you guys get back?" he asked, keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t wake up the sleeping families.

  One of the men, Muncie, was a former Capitol Police officer who had worked for Bradshaw. He hovered over a foam cup of coffee. "Maybe twenty or thirty minutes ago. It was a long night and we needed a little coffee before we reported in. We’re exhausted."

  The congressman nodded thoughtfully. "No problem. What did you find?"

  Muncie looked over at his travelling company, another Capitol Police officer named Asbury, then back at the congressman. "Don't you want to wait on Bradshaw or Jacobs? If we tell you now, we’ll just have to repeat the whole thing again for them."

  Anger flared within the congressman. His mouth tightened. If looks could kill, Muncie would be toppling over into the fire at that very moment. "Listen, I don't give a damn if you have to repeat it fifty times. I'm in charge here. You work for me. If I ask you a question you can answer it or I’ll replace you with somebody who knows where their bread is buttered. It’s that simple.”

  Muncie, clearly tired and perhaps a little frustrated by the congressman's angry response, stared at his coffee. While he may not have enjoyed being talked to in such a manner, all of the men in the caravan understood that opportunities such as the one they had were few and far between. If they were able to, it was best to choke down their pride a little bit and go along with the program.

  Asbury got it. "Sir, I apologize,” he spoke up. “Like Muncie said, we’re exhausted. It was a long night followed by a long walk back to camp. We haven’t slept in twenty-four hours."

  "I understand that and I’m not an unreasonable man. You need to understand, though, that the burden of this whole operation rests in my lap. I am personally responsible for every man, woman, and child out here. All I want is a safe place for us to call home. After it’s all said and done, that's not Colonel Jacobs’ problem. That's not Bradshaw's problem. That's my problem."

  Both men nodded in appreciation of what he was saying.

  “I’m sorry, sir,”
Muncie offered.

  “Apology accepted,” the congressman replied. “Now get on with it.”

  "It’s like a refugee camp,” Muncie said. “The town of Damascus is apparently a popular stopover on the Appalachian Trail. They have a big festival every year that celebrates the hikers. Judging by the signs, banners, and the tents set up all over this place, they were either preparing to have this festival or it had begun when things went all to hell. A lot of the hikers who came for the festival got stuck here."

  "So who’s running the show?" the congressman asked.

  "Hard to say. Best we could tell there was a single tent with a lot of traffic in and out of it. If I had to guess, I'd say that's where any decisions are made. We never laid eyes on any individual we could identify as the leader. It’s a pretty communal type of situation."

  The congressman's brow furrowed as he processed this. "You see any law enforcement or military presence?"

  Muncie shook his head. "We didn't detect any law enforcement presence in the entire town. None. In fact, most of the town beyond the refugee camp looks to be abandoned. We saw a few folks scuttling around in the shadows but not many. It looks like the hikers overwhelmed the town and everyone else left."

  “I did see a couple of ex-military types among the hikers,” Asbury added. “I would guess they’re there as hikers, though, and not in any official capacity. They were dressed like the rest of that group but you could tell they had the background. I’ve heard of veterans hiking the trail to unwind after they get home.”

  "What are conditions like in this refugee camp?"

  Muncie and Asbury looked at each other, shrugged, and Muncie spoke up. "Communal cooking situation. Folks weren’t starving but I wouldn't say they're fat and sassy. Most of the younger folks aren’t used to any kind of hardship so they’re a little grumpier than everyone else. They’re about ready for someone to swoop in and save them."