“There are worse things.”
“Careful what you wish for.” Ruby inspected her concoction and smiled. “Where do you get them from? The eggs?”
“Got a few dozen chickens. I’m not a complete wire head, Ruby. I’ve learned along with the rest of them.”
“No question.” She sighed. “Been a long time since I’ve made an omelet.”
“Like riding a bike, isn’t it?”
“Let’s hope I don’t fall off.”
Lucas emerged from the bathroom to the aroma of eggs. Ruby offered him a plate, and he polished it off in a few gulps, obviously anxious to get going.
“Those were delicious, Ruby.”
“You going to tell me where you’re going?”
“Should be back in a week.”
“A week!”
“About that.”
“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Stay put.” Lucas looked at Bruce. “That okay with you?”
Bruce looked uncomfortable, but Sierra stepped into the gap with a sunny smile. “We’ll stay out of your way.”
He nodded. “I…I guess.” His eyes never left Sierra.
She offered him another beaming flash of teeth and then approached Lucas, fiddling with a leather cord around her neck. She slipped it over her head and handed it to Lucas. “He’ll recognize this and know you’re my friend and that it’s not some kind of setup.”
Lucas inspected the medallion hanging from the cord: a cheap green and white yin yang symbol embossed on an enamel disk. He removed his hat and slipped the necklace over his head, where it hung tight against his throat.
Ruby eyed him, not understanding. “Who will recognize it, Lucas? What are you thinking about doing?”
Lucas glanced over his shoulder at Eve, who was watching him with childlike curiosity – and something more, that maturity he couldn’t put a proper name to. He sighed, resigned to yet another ordeal in a never-ending series, and turned back to Ruby.
“Going for a ride.”
Chapter 31
Slim’s horse stumbled for the third time in the final stretch leading to Pecos, and he eased up on the animal, having pushed it to the breaking point all night. It would serve no useful purpose to drive the creature to the brink and have him collapse before they reached the town. The beast slowed to a walk, breathing hard, its mouth foaming, and Slim felt a twinge of remorse, which he brushed aside, as he had all his earlier misgivings. Victory went to the bold, the meek inherited nothing but misery, and winners took big steps and did what was necessary to cross the finish line first. If his horse had to pay, he’d get another one – no, he’d get fifty of them with the wealth he would demand from the cartel for his information.
His head had swum all night with visions of forbidden pleasures – beautiful young women, scarce food, the finest alcohol, a protected compound where he was waited on like a medieval prince. As day broke over the arid landscape, he could almost taste the fruits of his triumph, and he had to remind himself not to goad the horse faster to get to his destination, whose promise shimmered like an oasis just over the horizon.
He tried not to think about what would happen to the woman and Lucas when the cartel caught up with them – that was none of his concern. It was their beef, and they could figure it out. Cano had promised the bearer of meaningful news anything he wanted, and Slim believed the Crew boss would follow through. He’d seen in the man’s face the desperation, the need to locate her, and Slim had heard stories of the Crew’s riches, such as their possession of a slew of southern states, vast resources that would have made their territory one of the wealthier countries if it had a national boundary around it. Anything Slim could ask for would be a pittance, and he had increased his price a dozen times on the ride, originally starting out with a modest demand, but by now, having increased it to a real eye-opener.
He guided the horse along a trail that paralleled the highway for the final leg into Pecos, and pulled up short when a voice called from a guard post as he neared a bridge on the outskirts of town.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot.”
“Easy. I’m here to trade,” Slim said.
“Let’s see your hands.”
As Slim raised them, the guard, his face tattooed, stepped from behind a pile of sandbags. Slim waited as the cartel gunman looked him over, and was relieved when the man appeared to relax.
“What you got to trade?”
“Information.”
The man regarded Slim with a puzzled expression. “Come again?”
“You heard me. I’m here to see…Cano.”
The man’s eyebrows rose. “Cano,” he repeated.
“That’s right. He’s with the Crew.”
“Oh. Sure. That guy.” The guard waved him past. “Headquarters is over at the courthouse. Know where that is?”
Slim’s eyes flitted to the man’s gun and then back to his face. “I’ve been there before.”
“All right, then. On your way. Just keep your hands off your weapons till you’re out of sight,” the guard warned, obviously jumpy.
“You got it.”
Slim’s first obstacle successfully negotiated, his confidence increased with each tired step his horse took. The stallion ambled toward the brick edifice, and Slim stopped at another guard post in front of it. The Locos there were a sight more alert than the drowsy border guard.
“I’m here to see Cano,” Slim announced.
“Yeah? Who’re you, homeboy?”
“Name’s Slim.”
“Slim, huh? There’s a classic for ya,” one of the guards said to his companion, slapping his chest with the back of his hand and laughing. “Slim here wants to see Cano. Isn’t that right?”
Slim’s certainty wavered, but he didn’t let it show. “That’s right. Where is he? He’ll want to talk to me.”
“He will, huh? And why’s that, Slim?”
“I’ve got information he’s after.”
The guards exchanged a glance. “Is that so?”
“Yep.”
One of the men shifted his gun so it was pointing at Slim. “Why don’t you tell us, and if it sounds legit, we’ll take you to him?”
Slim shook his head. “I only tell him.”
“You’re pissing me off, boy. Bad idea. Spill the beans.”
Slim swallowed the knot that was threatening to strangle him. “He’s looking for someone. I know where she is.”
“She?”
“The woman.”
Another surreptitious glance and the men stood, brandishing their weapons. “Is that so?”
Slim nodded. “It is.”
“Where is she?”
“I told you. I only talk to Cano. That was the deal.”
“Deal? You’re going to make a deal with him?”
Slim didn’t like the way the exchange was going, and dug in. “That’s between me and Cano.” He paused. “He’s not going to be happy to hear you didn’t take me to him immediately.”
“Is that a threat?” the guard asked the other, and then studied Slim. “Sounds like one to me.”
“Look, I have no beef with you. I came to talk to Cano.”
“Oh. Sure. Sort of like, ‘Take me to your leader.’ Except by some hayseed shit-kicker.” The Loco flipped off his weapon’s safety. “Now tell us where she is, punkass. I’m running low on patience.”
Slim shook his head. “I want to see Cano.”
The Loco looked to his companion. “Take his guns. We’ll do this the hard way.”
Realization of the situation he’d gotten himself into struck Slim with the force of a blow, and he tried to turn his horse, but the cartel thug was already reaching for the bridle. The exhausted stallion panicked as the gunman tried to grab it and reared on its back legs, lashing out with its front hooves and striking the Loco, knocking him to the ground, one of the hooves caving in his skull like a porcelain doll.
Slim fought to bring the horse under control as the remaining Loco rais
ed his gun. Slim reached for his to protect himself, and the Loco’s AKM barked on full auto, stitching Slim’s torso with rounds and blowing the horse’s brains all over him in a shower of blood and bone shards.
Rider and horse collapsed, the stallion dead before he hit the ground, and Slim’s life ebbing as his dreams of riches seeped from ragged holes in his chest, the flashes of searing pain replaced by a cold so profound it took his final breath away.
Chapter 32
Two days into the ride to Lubbock, Lucas was questioning the wisdom of his decision. It had seemed like the only alternative when he’d awakened to the idea, vivid as a kiss on the lips, but now, with the reality of over fifty miles a day of sunbaked slog across barren plains where decrepit oil pumps loomed like petrified giants on a lunar landscape, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he should have waited another day or two to see whether Ruby or Bruce could pull a rabbit out of their hat?
He’d camped west of the city of Lovington on the first night, staying clear of the town’s bonfire glow, not wanting to invite questions or attack. He wasn’t sure where the Crew’s territory began, but he was taking no chances and was operating under the assumption that anyone he encountered would be a threat. He’d slept uneasily under the stars, unwilling to risk even a small fire for fear of drawing hostiles, the song of distant coyotes his lullaby as the night’s chill descended like arctic breath.
The next morning he’d pressed Tango until Lovington’s skyline was a speck on the horizon behind him, and then settled into a steady walk across the flat expanse, the big horse soldiering on without complaint. As he approached a rusting yellow sign announcing the New Mexico-Texas border, he calculated that he would have one more long day’s ride before he arrived in Lubbock. With a hundred miles under his belt, he was dog tired, and his heart went out to Tango, who was grazing without complaint near a rural well as Lucas sized up the location’s viability for a campsite. Situated at the end of a dirt road near the bones of a farm, the area was deserted, and as the wind blew from the east, carrying with it an all-pervasive red dust that invaded every crevice and cranny, he decided to make camp there. He again avoided a fire, dining on smoked jerky and water.
Lucas inspected the bullet wound on his arm and was relieved to see that it had healed. The new skin was pink and tender as a baby’s, but there was no sign of infection. He flexed his bicep and didn’t feel any pain, so that was one concern he could check off his list. Going into enemy territory on a suicide mission, he had plenty on his plate to mull over without his body betraying him. He waited until it was completely dark and then used the well water and a soiled shirt to clean the worst of the sweat and road dust from his body, his naked form pale as a ghost in the light of the rising moon.
The wind strengthened to a howl as the night wore on. Lucas snatched sleep when he could, but was awakened multiple times by tumbleweeds blowing by and the moan of sustained gusts through the bones of the farmhouse. When he packed his bedroll away just before sunrise, fatigue still wore heavily on him, and he again was overcome by a wave of misgiving. He’d chosen to put his life on the line based on a slim chance of success, violating every precept that had kept him alive through the post-collapse anarchy. In the crisp predawn luminescence, he shook his head in a kind of wonder at how crazy his actions were. Maybe it was a delayed response to Hal’s passing, or the loss of the ranch, or the death of an entire town’s good people, but if he kept making poor decisions, he’d join them in eternity sooner than later – and he wasn’t ready to shed his mortal coil quite yet.
The truth was that the idea of Shangri-La, of a sanctuary where the madness of the outside world was held at bay, had infected him, corroding his pragmatism and leaving something far more dangerous in its stead: hope. For years he’d avoided thinking of anything but the present, living day to day, never expecting to wake up the next. But now there was a chance of a better future than one of mere existence, and he’d drunk the Kool-Aid like it contained the antidote.
And since he was being completely honest with himself, there was also Sierra and Eve. The little girl had touched something he’d thought dead in his core, and for better or worse, he felt an unusual bond with her. As to Sierra, he understood that she was cunning in the way a survivor had to be, but she was also the first woman he’d seen in forever that had stirred his interest – and reached a part of him he’d believed had vanished forever with his wife’s death.
“I’m a weak man,” he whispered to Tango, who passed judgment with inscrutable eyes. “Ready for another day in hell?”
The horse stood motionless as Lucas climbed into the saddle, and by the time the sun rose, they were miles along the trail that stretched east to Lubbock, where he would hopefully find the answer to questions that he’d never known existed until a few days earlier.
Toward midday, as he was crossing a vast oil field dotted with rusting pumps, he spied a dust cloud straight ahead. He raised his binoculars and scanned the horizon until he could make out the source: a group of six horsemen, all heavily armed. Their plate carriers, assault rifles, and facial tattoos alerted Lucas that he was now in Crew country.
“Come on, Tango, let’s make tracks,” he said, dropping the glasses back against his chest and wheeling the horse around to the north. Lucas wasn’t interested in discovering how the Crew treated new arrivals into its territory – Sierra’s account had convinced him that was a pleasure best skipped. He urged the horse to a trot, just fast enough to put some distance between himself and the patrol but at a moderate enough pace that no dust was stirred up. After half an hour, the dust cloud passed behind him, the group riding hard for some unknown destination.
Lucas stopped and allowed Tango to take a breather. He watched the unending fields with his spyglasses until the dust was out of sight, and when he remounted the horse, any fatigue was gone, replaced by an adrenaline buzz from the near miss. If there were regular patrols from here on out, it would be slower going, and he’d need to be extra vigilant the remainder of the way to avoid discovery.
The dry scrub turned greener as he neared Lubbock, and he paused regularly so Tango could munch grass for ten minutes at a time while he relieved himself and stretched his legs. He began seeing signs of life as he drew closer to the city: smoke rising from chimneys and the occasional boom of a small-gauge shotgun as hunters bagged dinner. In one section, the sky was thick with partridges, and his mouth watered as he debated risking shooting one himself so he could dine on fare other than jerky. Ultimately, the risk wasn’t worth it, and he discarded the idea and continued on, stomach rumbling in protest.
Twilight arrived with swarms of flies and mosquitoes, and he spent the final half hour of daylight swatting at them like a man possessed. When darkness fell, the high plain glowed in the distance from the lights of Lubbock, and he recalled Sierra’s description of the wind farms the Crew had harnessed for power.
Because of the town’s size, it was unlikely the entire perimeter was guarded, so to enter the city, he’d just need to avoid the obvious outposts and find a way in someplace secluded. Once there he would find the hospital; and then the difficult part of the operation would begin. He’d reconnoiter the grounds and get a sense of what he was up against – how alert the guards were, where they were stationed – and then search for Jacob after midnight, when most would be asleep.
What he would do if the man’s quarters were empty was another matter; one that had haunted him on the journey east. If the scientist had been killed, they had no options – they’d be destined to run from constant pursuit until the inevitable day their luck ran out. The thought made his stomach muscles tighten to the point where they were sore, and he willed himself calm. He patted Tango, preferring to focus on the immediate future rather than speculate on what would soon be obvious.
“We can do this, boy,” he said, unsure whether he was talking to Tango or himself. He gazed through his binoculars at the amber radiance, faint silhouettes of buildings framed against the glow, and then coaxed th
e horse on, the final five or so miles likely to be the most treacherous.
Chapter 33
Cano studied the stucco walls of the hotel room where he was convalescing. The stained surface had bubbled in places where water had leaked through the roof in one of the area’s infrequent storms, forming patterns strangely similar to a collage of stylized human faces. He blinked away the vision, his good eye roaming the baseboards that rodents had chewed much of away. He could hear them at night, their tiny feet scrambling across the linoleum floor, and for the first few days he’d been unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, the conviction that they were going to dine on him while he was defenseless consuming his thoughts.
He was better now; his wounds had scabbed over, and his strength was returning by the day. He’d avoided reporting his state to Magnus for fear of his injuries being interpreted as an early failure on his part. Cano knew the price for disappointing the great one, and he’d seen no reason to give Houston an update, preferring to allow them to think he was still in the field, on the quarry’s tail.
The doctor had warned him not to push it, and Cano had reluctantly obeyed the instruction, there being no obvious trail to follow. He’d sent out a party to circle the crest from which he’d been ambushed and look for tracks, but had little hope that they would find anything significant. With him out of commission for almost a week, the trail would have gone cold, and the woman could easily be in Canada by now.
The thought wasn’t a pleasant one. Magnus wouldn’t be pleased, and he wouldn’t care about the details. He’d made that clear.
Cano’s plan was to recuperate another few days and then get back into the saddle and resume the hunt. His head was now clear, and he’d grown accustomed to the blindness on his left side. Physically he was healing remarkably fast, but mentally he was still shaken, and he gave the wall another sidelong glance, from where the faces seemed to be mocking him.
The Day After Never Bundle (First 4 novels) Page 39
