by Bobby Akart
They took a circuitous route around the side of the building adjacent to the crashed airplane in order to avoid leaving footprints in the snow. Once they were there, they waited and listened for the arrival of the MPs. Holloway checked his watch, a Rolex Mariner he’d stolen from a dead man—one he’d murdered and robbed, of course. He heard the sound of their truck’s exhaust system as it approached from Roswell. Moments later, it pulled to a stop in front of the building. It was four o’clock. Right on time.
Holloway had to be patient. He couldn’t move his men into position too soon because they might be seen by someone in the neighborhood across the street. He also had to take the MPs using their blades. They couldn’t afford gunfire because, in the quiet serenity of the airport area, the retort would linger forever and draw attention to them.
He waited. It had been fourteen minutes. Too close to risk missing the opportunity to surprise them while the door was open. He motioned for his best operatives, men whom, on many occasions, he’d likened to cats stalking mice.
Silent. Quick. Deadly.
The three men waited around the corner from the covered entryway. They heard the bolt lock of the door click, and then it opened with a slight creak. The men weren’t speaking, but that didn’t matter. Holloway was squeezing the shoulders of his men, who were tense as they prepared to spring into action.
He released his grip on his cats. They raced around the corner, knives drawn, and initially undetected by the MPs. The two men were only able to turn slightly to respond to the incoming threat, but all they accomplished was to bare their necks to the trained killers.
The men held their knives in a reverse grip, punching toward their prey and ripping into their jugular veins with the serrated blades. The eyes of the MPs grew wide and stared at each other in amazement as the North Koreans shoved them inside the armory through the door, where they fell to the carpeted floor, bleeding out.
Holloway led the rest of his men through the entrance, gave a quick look around the front of the building, and smiled as he closed the door behind him.
Now let’s see what we’ve got.
Chapter 49
December 15
Boise City, Oklahoma
The Rodeo Kids were stiff from sleeping on the cots found at the Julesburg airport. With nothing but rolled-up jackets for pillows and furniture pads from an abandoned U-Haul trailer as blankets, their accommodations were barely capable of fending off the cold. The snow began to fall right after dark, and the cold wind caused the chill to be well below freezing.
The cold air and the windblown snow, which forced its way through the broken door of the truck stop, did nothing to dampen their spirits. They were unable to obtain diesel from the aboveground storage tanks, but they’d found enough in two Caterpillar backhoes parked behind the building to siphon out. Red Rover was now full to the neck in diesel, not enough to make it to the ranch, but good for another day or two of travel.
It was when they were rummaging through the truck stop’s contents that Riley found batteries for the shortwave radio. Riley scanned the shortwave channels for thirty minutes, searching for any broadcast, even from the Three Percenters. There was nothing.
Out of boredom, he scrolled through the FM bands and was treated to a symphony of static. Then, in a last-ditch effort to reach out to humanity, Riley gave the AM band a try. They were astonished at what he discovered.
Being close to Texas, and without any other AM band radio stations filling the airwaves, they were able to pick up AM 940 out of Amarillo. They stayed up for hours listening to the broadcast until the storm worsened and atmospheric conditions prevented them from keeping the signal. But what they heard was enough to ensure the trio was wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as the sun rose the next morning.
For the first time, the Armstrong siblings learned Texas still had power. What surprised them the most was that Texas had seceded from the United States. Their spontaneous reaction to this news said it all. They jumped off the floor and exchanged high fives. Riley and Palmer immediately jumped into a Texas two-step through the cluttered truck stop building.
One-two, one-two, slide-shuffle.
Eventually, their euphoria gave way to reality as they continued to listen to the nonstop news reporting. Details of the attack on the I-44 bridge north of Wichita Falls had reached the international community. World leaders and the United Nations were condemning the attacks on innocent Americans who were caught stranded on the bridge. President Burnett was coming under fire and heavy pressure to allow in United Nations peacekeeping forces. Calls to open the Texas borders to American refugees were coming from around the world, especially Washington.
Despite the humanitarian crisis and the new border established by Texas, the Rodeo Kids were excited that most likely their parents were safe and the ranch intact. Further, they had a real life to come home to, not one like they’d witnessed on the highway for the last few weeks.
As they approached Boise City, they began to see signs of what the newscasters alluded to during the broadcast—wayward refugees seeking normalcy in Texas.
Riley easily plowed through the three inches of snow dropped by last night’s cold front. The off-road tires on Red Rover were designed for all types of weather conditions. As they drove farther south, the road began to clear somewhat but not because of a snowplow or other vehicles, but because of the shuffling of feet of people heading in the same direction as they traveled.
Cooper knew very little of the Great Depression from his studies in high school. He did recall the stories told by Pops. It was rural America that suffered the most during those difficult economic times. Pops described children in Appalachia that were so hungry they chewed on their hands. Kids in cities would play eviction games in their living rooms, which involved piling all the furniture in one corner and then another, to simulate moving after the sheriff came to evict them.
In the suburbs, shacks and shanties were built, known as Hoovervilles, designed to provide shelter for destitute families. Most rural families were so poor, they couldn’t afford to own a car, much less buy gasoline for one. So they walked, sometimes for many days over hundreds of miles, seeking a place of refuge until America recovered from the economic collapse.
After Pops told Cooper these stories, he left him with this thought. “Cooper, I’ll never allow the Armstrong family to be poor. We’ll live a life of self-reliance because know this, an economic collapse like the Great Depression happened once, and it can happen again. When it does, we’ll be okay.”
As the three of them rode along in silence among the shuffling feet of families, none of whom had the energy or will to attempt to stop their truck, much less wave them down, Cooper recalled his grandfather’s words. Now he understood why his parents were preppers. After what he saw that morning, he vowed to carry forward the family legacy.
Palmer pointed toward the next intersection and instructed Riley to take a left back toward the south. The county roads in this part of Oklahoma traversed the state in a square grid pattern. While the highways connected towns and major cities, the country roads ran east-west and north-south. They could easily avoid populated areas as they worked their way to the Texas border.
The closer they got, however, the more people showed up on even these desolate backroads. Shuffling their feet through the snow like mindless zombies, groups ranging from a couple to several dozen walked along the road, sometimes stubbornly refusing to move as Riley approached.
The larger the group, the more emboldened they became. A few times, some of the men lashed out at their truck, slapping a fender or hurling a snowball in their direction. The closer they got to Texas, the denser the packs of refugees became, and more hostile.
Finally, Cooper had enough. “Riley, take the next right.”
“Which road?” he asked.
“I don’t care,” Cooper gruffed. “Just get off this one for a minute so we can think this through. This is ridiculous!”
Cooper was frustrated as R
iley pulled onto a county road headed toward the west. He immediately noticed the road had not been traveled upon, by car or human.
He reached down and formed a snowball and began munching on it, allowing the snow to melt in his mouth. Although after traveling past Denver, their RAD stickers no longer showed any evidence of radiation, Cooper immediately reconsidered eating snow after nuclear Armageddon. It was a bad idea and he spit it out.
Palmer emerged from the truck with the map. “I think I know what you’re thinkin’, Coop. All of these people have escaped Denver and Colorado Springs after the EMP attack. Somehow, word of Texas being okay got around.”
“Yeah, lucky for them they left, or they’d be crispy critters,” quipped Riley.
“C’mon, man, a bunch of people died back there,” said Cooper, pointing to the north. “Do you remember those dead bodies when we were driving east of Denver. That’s what death from radiation looks like.”
Those downwind from the nuclear blast that struck Colorado Springs might have avoided death from the impact, but they were unable to avoid the radiation sickness that followed. Exposure to a large amount of radiation over a short period of time poisons the human body.
Skin that was directly exposed to high degrees of radiation will quickly produce a rash or burned appearance. Inside, the radiation invades the cells of your stomach and intestinal tract and then your bone marrow. This combination will immediately cause symptoms like vomiting, headache, disorientation and fatigue. Eventually the body’s organs succumb and fail.
People lying on both sides of the highway had left an indelible mark in Cooper’s mind. Not one to ordinarily worry about the harmful words people used, he drew the line at crispy critters under these circumstances.
Riley hung his head in shame. “Sorry, Coop. You’re right.”
Palmer quickly returned to the subject at hand as she studied the map spread out on the hood of the truck. “You have to figure people from major cities like Oklahoma City, Denver, and Albuquerque will take the shortest routes into Texas. They’d seek out interstates like 40, 35, and 44.”
“You’re right, Palmer,” said Cooper, who regained his focus. “Think about what’s due west of the ranch—nothing, really. Roswell in New Mexico isn’t that big, and those folks would probably head straight toward Lubbock. If we could make our way south through New Mexico toward Hobbs, heck, that’s straight down the highway from Gail and Lamesa. We could stroll right in.”
“It’s gotta be better than this,” added Riley. “The farther south we go toward Amarillo, the more likely we’re gonna get into it with someone, you know?”
“I agree,” said Palmer. “But what about fuel? We don’t have enough.”
“We’ll do just like we’ve been doin’ for the last however many miles,” replied Cooper. “We’ll forage and keep plodding along.”
Riley laughed as he put Cooper’s admonishment behind him. “Y’all get me to Hobbs, and I’ll carry the both of you to Momma’s doorstep. Deal?”
“Deal!”
Chapter 50
December 14
Pecos River
North of Carlsbad, New Mexico
Duncan was not one to be philosophical but riding with Sook through another snow-filled cold front as they searched for a suitable crossing across the Pecos River was trying his soul. During his career, he learned about determination and perseverance. He had pushed through many a mission under extreme duress in adverse conditions. His survival in North Korea was his greatest test, and thanks to his new love, Sook, he’d survived it. Now, as the winds blew from the north, sending chills to their bones, Duncan and Sook had to muster all of the strength in their hearts to continue, because the true measure of anyone’s soul was not shown by the strength of their bodies, but rather, by their heart.
“It’s a beautiful day for a ride,” shouted Sook over the noise of the wind howling through the valley.
“What?” shouted Duncan, unsure if he’d heard Sook correctly. He slowed his horse so she could pull alongside him.
Sook smiled at Duncan, although he could only see her eyes through the scarf wrapped around her face for protection. “I said it’s a beautiful day for a ride.”
He laughed. “Yeah, sure. Lovely.”
As they pressed forward, Duncan considered stopping even though it was midday. Not having access to weather forecasts forced him to use his instincts and survival training.
The day before, the winds had shifted from being at their back, blowing from west to east, to coming from the north. He’d lived in West Texas long enough to know that a northerly wind doesn’t bode well at any time of the year.
Last night, they’d found a dilapidated fishing cabin off Route 285 near Brantley Lake. The cabin’s windows had been broken out and provided little protection against the elements other than a roof. They built a fire using river rocks to contain the coals and mesquite wood, which Sook gathered from their surroundings.
Duncan observed the smoke as they huddled together to keep warm. During stable weather conditions, the high barometric pressure caused the smoke to go directly up in the air. During the hour or so that they ate their MREs provided by the soldiers they assisted, the smoke shifted and began spiraling downward, a sign that a low-pressure system was on the way.
As they awoke this morning, Duncan glanced outside the cabin and was greeted by a cloudy day, but at least the winds were calm. This was the sign that he missed. There’s a reason the phrase calm before the storm came into existence.
They began another day of travels, thinking the biggest challenge they’d face was how to cross the Pecos River into eastern New Mexico without running into trouble. Duncan had readily accepted the hundred rounds of .338 ammo from the appreciative guardsmen he’d helped, but he was not in a mood to begin expending them in another firefight.
All of these things had run through his mind earlier as he took a deep breath and realized the air was full of moisture. That was when he muttered to himself, “It’s comin’.”
And come it did. The snow was light at first, almost beautiful as the two rode along the highway in silence, enjoying the flakes fall around them. Then the cold winds arrived, bone-chilling and gusty. They were caught in no-man’s-land, in near-blizzard conditions, with no options but to persevere and just keep movin’.
He reached for her hand and squeezed it for a moment before the two separated again and she fell back slightly, by design. Duncan did not want the two of them to be a large easy target for anyone who might choose to shoot at them from the surrounding hills.
For the next two hours, they continued to travel slowly to the south as Duncan attempted to lead them past Brantley Lake and the dam that held back the Pecos River. Their visibility was poor, but he expected to see a side road with some type of markings indicating the location of the dam.
His heart leapt somewhat as they approached a green road marker, hoping it was their opportunity to turn due east toward Texas and the Armstrong Ranch. Instead, the sign read Carlsbad Caverns – 12 miles. Although disappointed, he knew they were getting closer to their turn.
“What is Carlsbad Caverns?” Sook asked from behind him. Duncan began to reconsider his strategy of riding apart. It would take one heckuva shot to nail them from a distance in a semi-blizzard. He reached his arm out and waved her forward to join him.
Sook provided her horse some pressure, and it trotted to catch up to Duncan.
“Carlsbad Caverns are ancient caves in the mountains,” he replied. “Some are very large.”
“Can we sleep there tonight?”
“We’re not going that far south. We will turn toward the east any—”
Before Duncan could finish his sentence, Sook’s horse unexpectedly dropped to its front knees in a snowdrift. A deep breath of warm air exhaled from its lungs as its eyes grew wide. Then it simply fell over in a heap, pinning Sook’s right leg underneath it.
“Duncan!” she shouted, her voice mixing fright with pain from the heavy
animal crushing her small body.
Duncan quickly dismounted and placed his hands over the horse’s nostrils. He glanced at the beautiful animal’s eyes, which remained wide open. The mare who’d carried Sook all of these miles had succumbed. She was dead.
“Try to relax, Sook. This may take a minute.”
“Is she dead?” asked Sook as tears began to stream sideways off her face.
When the horse toppled over, it had fallen down a slight incline, which complicated removing the animal from Sook’s leg. Duncan’s mind raced. Horses could die suddenly for many reasons ranging from cardiac arrest to gastrointestinal ruptures, two likely causes because of the conditions under which they’d been traveling. Aortic or brain aneurysms were possible, both ticking time bombs within a horse that would not necessarily be triggered by the adverse circumstances. Regardless, Duncan had a problem on his hands.
The average horse weighed from nine hundred to twenty-two hundred pounds. Duncan estimated the mare to be about fifteen hands high, or sixty inches. That would put her weight around twelve hundred pounds.
As Duncan considered his options, he heard the low rumble of a vehicle approaching from the north. As the sound grew, he considered whether it was more than one vehicle.
Is it another military convoy? Maybe they can help?
He wrestled with what to do. He couldn’t lift the heavy animal off Sook alone. If the approaching vehicles weren’t friendly, they could both die.
There was no time to mince words. “Yes,” he replied. “Is your leg broken?”
Sook hesitated before answering, “No. It is numb.”
Duncan didn’t waste any more time. He removed the tarp from his horse and the paracord, both of which had created shelter several evenings of their journey.
