“What are they doing this far south? They go much further and they’ll run into our outpost,” Dude whispered. He’d maneuvered alongside his friend but kept his head below the ridge.
“I know. Get your gun ready. They spot our rides and we might be in trouble.”
“Oh, now you’re worried about being seen. We could’ve avoided this by just turning…”
“Hold on! The truck stopped.”
“What’s happening? What’s going on?” Dude stammered, his voice rising with each question.
“It’s backing up.”
“What are the other two guys doin’?”
“Still comin’,” Jeff replied.
Suddenly, two muffled but distinct blasts from the truck’s horn wafted over the boys. A fraction later the lead bikers responded to the sound, spun their motorcycles around and headed toward the truck.
“They’ve seen us?” Dude shrieked, as he scrambled to retrieve his rifle.
“No – no they haven’t. They’ve seen something though.” Through the oculars, Boob carefully watched the company of killers. The pickup skidded to a jerky stop and the occupants jumped from their seats to the pavement.
“Boob, this’d be a good time to go. Come on…they’re distracted. Let’s get outta here.”
“Wait…wait a minute. They’re… Oh, crap! There’s somebody else down there. It’s a guy…he’s running.”
Gunfire crackled, delayed by a full second before the boys heard it. Unable to resist the urge any longer, Dude lifted his head above the rise and looked at the scene unfolding over a mile away. “Did they shoot him?” he asked.
“Don’t think so. I think they’re just firing in the air. There’s no way he’ll get away…the bikers are almost on top of him.” Jeff rolled on his side and stared his friend in the face. It’s now or never, Dude. Let’s get back to the bikes.”
“So we can leave, right?” Dude asked. His question was answered with only a smile and a nod. “Damn it, Jeff, this is not a game.”
The words fell on deaf ears as Boob shimmied to his motorcycle. “Who’s gonna help if we don’t? We’ve been trained our whole lives for this moment. Lock ’n load and follow me.”
Reluctantly Dude pulled the bolt back on his semi-automatic rifle and crawled to his friend. “Okay, Boob. I’m in.”
* * *
The realization that he’d likely been spotted locked Ben in place, like a deer frozen in the headlights of an oncoming, metal predator: the stillness falsely proclaiming a sense of safety until it’s entirely too late. Finally, the blaring of the truck’s horn was enough to rouse him to action and he bolted from the brush, leaving the Schwinn toppled in the weeds. Run, run, run, he screamed through his mind.
He sprinted on quivering legs, churning over bumpy ground. The commotion behind him tempted a quick glance but he remained focused on getting away. He knew who they were and what they would do.
The shock of hearing a gunshot first slowed, and then pushed him on, dodging right and left with no idea where the shells were falling. The loud, concussive blasts were followed by boisterous laughter…the howls reaching across the field, shredding his ego.
I’m spent, he wailed inwardly, while groaning against his body’s desire to give up and drop. The sound of the motorcycles ebbed briefly and he heard a bellowing shout above their idle. “Get him!” Instantly the engines revved and without looking Ben knew they were closing…fast.
“No…no,” he screamed, fighting the odds to keep moving.
Seconds later, a marauding assailant caught up to Ben, kicking him in the back as he sped by. The strike yielded its desired affect, pitching Ben face-first into the dirt. He rolled away from the second rider’s outstretched assault and tried to regain his footing. After a few wayward steps, he went down again, twisting his ankle in the process. The bikes ringed his position, their right hands on the throttle and their lefts, shaking fists high in the air.
Ben, quaking with exhaustion, knelt on the uneven ground, his head down and shoulders shaking. Hands, dry and peeling, supported his weight and pressed firmly against his knees. He looked up long enough to see a filthy Harvester jogging across the field to join them.
“We got him! We got him,” one of the bikers yelled.
“Good work, boys,” the man on foot replied. “Lady Williams will be mighty happy.”
The Harvester, no bigger than Ben and almost as skinny, stood over his captive’s frame. He whooped and whistled with his barbaric friends, periodically kicking dirt on his trembling catch. Circling his victim, the captor finally stopped behind him and pressed a thin, long blade to Ben’s throat. “She’s gonna skin you alive, Man,” the Harvester hissed. Ben did his best to ignore the comment, which seemed to tighten the knife against his skin.
“She’s gonna gut ya like a fish and fillet you…”
“I get it. Juanita’s gonna kill me, and you scum are going to eat me. Fine…get on with it,” Ben barked in rebuttal.
The blade eased but remained. “It ain’t that easy. Where’s the rest of ’em?”
“Rest of who?” Ben grunted.
The knife was suddenly removed but returned with a vengeance, the handle striking Ben behind the ear. Blood erupted from the wound and he toppled into the dirt. The sky swirled and land shifted, as hell seemed to engulf him.
“Get up…get up,” the Harvester ordered, dragging Ben back to his knees. “Annie and the kids…where are they?”
Ben worked a small collection of blood and spit to the tip of his tongue, and mumbled an inaudible reply.
“What? Speak up, Man,” the ghoulish character snapped.
“Can’t…too weak,” Ben said in a hushed tone.
Bending, the interrogator leaned in to hear Ben more clearly. “Where are they?” he asked, again.
“Dead,” Ben screamed, lunging and spitting the blood-laced wad at the Harvester. It struck the man fully on the face, catching him off-guard but not dissuading his course.
“Sweet,” he quipped, sliding his finger across his cheek to collect the gross sputum. He looked back and forth between the dripping glob and Ben…and smiled. Stuffing his finger deep into his mouth, he sucked it clean…even taking the time to smack his lips upon removing the now glistening digit. A roar of laughter erupted around them – the bikers thoroughly enjoying the show.
“Now, where…”
The first, tumbling 5.56 mm bullet skipped in the dirt at Ben’s side and burrowed into the Harvester’s knee. He had no time to feel or react, before a second and third round mangled his groin and chest. The bully tasted death before he sagged to the ground, causing panic among those left behind. The bikers spun their tires and began shooting wildly at unseen targets, while Ben sensed freedom and hastily slithered away, keeping low and quiet.
* * *
Jeff squeezed off three, controlled shots, just as he’d been instructed over hours and years on the range. He saw his target twist and go down. He pulled back and dropped below the road’s lip, his face white. Chaos suddenly reigned in a place now somewhat distant from where he and Dude huddled in an oozing, stagnant ditch. Dude looked on, horrified at what they’d started. Hell, in all its fury, was erupting all around them, as bullets ripped the air and ricochets sparked the asphalt.
“Did you hit him? Did you see him go down?” Dude questioned, above the din.
Jeff nodded, before leaning over and emptying his stomach into the mire at the bottom of the ditch. “He’s dead…I killed him.”
“The Harvester?”
Boob looked at Dude, incredulously. “Yeah, the Harvester. Who else?”
“Well, you’ve stirred a frickin’ hornet’s nest now. We either crawl outta here and go home or finish what we’ve started.”
Again, Jeff nodded his understanding. “Get to the truck and take out the driver. I’ll work further down the ditch and see about the riders.”
“Gotcha. Be careful,” Dude replied.
“You too.” The boys moved apart, half
-walking, and half-crawling through the muck. Suddenly a clump of dirt struck the back of Dude’s vest and he spun, his gun ready to fire. He saw his friend, kneeling and mouthing what appeared to be the words, “I’m sorry.”
The acknowledgement was all Dude needed to carry on, inspired by an age-old duty for good to triumph over evil. In his heart of hearts he knew that’s what had driven Jeff into acts he would have normally considered madness. He lumbered through the stench until satisfied he’d reached a point where he could assault the truck. Rifle and pistol blasts had slowed but not stopped entirely. How much ammo these nuts got? he thought, laying his rifle across his lap and checking the chamber.
Dude glanced down the gapped ditch and spotted Jeff getting ready to rejoin the fight. He waited for the sound of Boob’s rifle before lifting his own barrel to enter the fray. The world above the safety of the borrow pit was filled with the smell of cordite, smoke, and the whine of hot lead. Dude surveyed his position and found himself 50 yards from the pickup and even further from the motorcyclists. He pulled back without firing a shot. The driver…he was nowhere to be seen. A rising panic began to settle in his chest as he frantically looked down the ditch in both directions, expecting to see the burly Harvester.
Further along the ditch-bank, Jeff moved and fired. The bikers had long since abandoned their motorcycles and were steadily inching their way across the field to more substantial cover. Bullets zinged over Jeff’s head, but he kept the pressure up, emptying his first magazine quickly.
Taking advantage of Jeff drawing their attention, Dude slipped up the slope a second time, his rifle leading the way. He scanned his surroundings, anxious to assist in the haphazardly orchestrated attack. The truck, he suddenly realized…disable the truck. The teen swung his sights to the black pickup, and pumping the trigger wildly, he emptied an entire clip into the engine and left front tire. A high-pitched whistle filled him with confidence, as he slammed another magazine into place. “That’ll slow ’em down,” he said, grinning.
Jeff noted the steam-driven hiss coming from the truck; pleased to know Dude had joined the fight. “Get ’em, Dude,” he growled.
The battle raged for what seemed like long, drawn-out minutes, but in reality seconds stood still with their young lives held in the balance. Boob gripped his fourth and final clip and plunged it into the underbelly of his weapon. Conserve…got to save these, he thought. In his mind he imagined the Harvesters to be in the same situation – low on ammo and scared. As much as he wanted to believe it…it somehow didn’t ring true.
From his location near the truck, Dude recognized that Jeff’s gun had run silent. His heart sank, anticipating the worst. He lifted himself above the rise and squeezed off a couple of quick shots, fired aimlessly into nothingness. “Where are they?” he cussed. Just then, a heavy pistol slug struck the pavement only a few feet away, sending a cluster of fragments into the boy’s face. He dropped back into the ditch and touched his cheeks. Blood streaked his fingers and palm, filling him with renewed bitterness and anger.
The truck, the shot came from the truck, he rationalized. He scooted further along the ditch, knowing he was well out of sight. The newly baptized soldier counted the yards, 10…20…30…40…50. He leaned against the bank, catching his breath to listen. The firing had slowed considerably, but the sound of the ailing motor had grown with each passing yard. Him or me, he thought, as he summoned the courage to assault the pickup.
The echo of Dude’s rifle plowing through an entire clip brought Jeff to the road’s rim. The sound of lead striking metal and the anguished cry of a wounded man carried across the abandoned farmland. “He’s got him,” Jeff cried.
Seconds later, the boys frantically reunited midway along the ditch. “Now what?” Dude asked.
“I’m not sure. What happened to you?” Jeff asked, noting Dude’s bloodstained face.”
“Zits,” Dude joked.
“Yeah, right. You low on ammo?”
Dude nodded, pointing to the clip that he’d just fit into his Ruger. “Last one.”
“Me too. You get the driver?”
“Hope so. He’s hurt pretty bad…if not dead,” Dude replied.
Boob considered their options, before suggesting they get to their bikes and try to swing away from the fight to pick up the Harvester prisoner. Jeff had seen him scurry away from the battle and knew his approximate location. The friends agreed and began the sickening crawl through the boot-sucking mud back to their motorcycles. Periodically they peered over the road, hoping the Harvesters were still hunkered down.
Without warning, movement suddenly appeared in the ditch a short distance ahead of the duo and bullets tore at the dirt all around them. “We’re cut off,” Jeff shouted, blindly firing a couple of shells to cover their retreat. A few yards in the other direction they encountered the same thing. Bracketed, and with nowhere to run, they braced for the worst: Jeff facing south and Dude north.
“Save our ammo,” Jeff ordered. “Only shoot at what you can hit.”
“Yup,” Dude confirmed.
For a moment, the area was plunged into absolute silence, which was broken when Dude whispered across the few feet that separated the friends. “Hey Boob, love you, Man.”
“Yeah, Brother, you too. Hang tough; we’ll get outta here. We weren’t born to die in a festering ditch. We…”
The crack of a single round rocked the relative quiet and spun Jeff into the bottom of the ditch. Enraged, Dude fired three times in each direction, emptying his gun, before falling on top of Jeff. Holding his friend close he called out, “Jeff…Jeff…no…not like this.”
Beyond the sound of what Dude anticipated would bring his own death, he heard the unmistakable roar of a four-barreled carburetor, with someone’s foot mashed to the floorboard. Immediately, machine gun fire littered the scene with spraying lead, as the vehicle madly approached. From the corner of his eye, Dude saw one of the Harvesters bolt from the ditch and race across the road. He cartwheeled before reaching the other side, a stream of shells tossing him about like a ragdoll. The remaining killer made it a few yards further but was also cut down in a hail of well-directed bullets.
Coming to himself, Dude scrambled for Jeff’s rifle and prepared for what was to come. He blinked and the truck was on them, squealing to a sudden stop. A beaming Scotty and Niel unclipped themselves from their firing positions in the truck’s bed and jumped to the pavement. Clayton soon joined them, swearing at his two young friends. “You dumb, damn kids,” he yelled. “Looks like you just about got yourselves killed.”
He was instantly taken aback when he saw Jeff’s motionless form stuck in the mud. “Boob,” he called, jumping into the ditch to roll Jeff over. A bloodied face greeted him, along with a rising chest. “He’s alive,” Clayton shouted, inspecting him more closely. “Gonna need some stitches along his jaw, but the bone’s not shattered.” He suddenly slapped the unconscious young man firmly across the face.
“Hey,” Dude protested.
“He’s passed out,” Clayton responded.
Boob slowly opened his eyes and smiled an awkward, lopsided grin. “Your ugly mugs sure look good,” he said, gazing around at his friends.
“Come on, let’s get you outta here,” Scotty ordered, hoisting Dude out of the slime.
“No…not yet. Where is he?” Jeff asked.
“Who?” Niel asked, looking around.
“We can’t leave without him,” Jeff whispered.
Clayton looked at Dude, his expression seeking some understanding. “What’s he talking about?”
“The reason this all started. We were trying to save some guy from the Harvesters. We think he got away. He’s someplace on the other side of the road.”
“Okay, let’s get you loaded and see what we can find,” Clayton confirmed.
Once inside the truck, they rolled forward but had not gone far, before a ragged figure emerged from a dense thatch of brush at the side of the road. He staggered, dropped to his knees and appear
ed to be weeping.
Chapter 26
Grant had spent the better part of the morning sorting through provisions he felt The Ward might utilize. The bed of his Chevy pickup was lined with boxes of carefully arranged and labeled food stores, providing a layer of support for the heavier sacks of rice and flour. Sweat rolled easily from beneath his hat, saturating his skin before dripping from the square of his chin. Since his encounter with Rod, Jeff, and the others a short time ago, Grant had found greater purpose in his survival. He was still committed to caring for himself and ‘Rose’, but part of him that lived for neighbor, friend, and community had been dormant too long, and he relished in his ability to give back.
He looked at the woman whom he’d grown so fond of over the years. She was his, as much as she ever could be, and he loved her. A change had come over her – something he couldn’t explain, but somehow a light shined in the window of her soul that he’d not seen prior to the discovery of her grandson, Jeff. Grant had shrugged it off, believing he was reading more into her demeanor than really existed, but today, with a light breeze ruffling her dress and hair, he sensed it…grace…contentment, and he loved her all the more. Smiling, he whistled through the gap in his teeth to get her attention. She responded with a smile of her own and waved.
“Rose,” he shouted, “come give me a hand with these beans – darn things ur like wrestlin’ pigs in a sack.” She nodded and scooted to offer some assistance. Rose, he thought, the name still not perfectly settled in his mind, but she seemed to like it and after all, it was her birth name – perhaps her newfound bliss was partially due to a rediscovery of who she really was.
The pair stood back from the truck and admired their morning’s labor. Grant pulled the cap from his baldhead and used his sleeve to mop away the sweat. Rose playfully slapped at his arm and produced a handkerchief for him to complete the task. “Women,” he muttered under his breath, as he wiped his face and oddly pigmented scalp.
The Lasting Hunger Page 18
