Gathering Home

by JEFF MOTES

  “Have you heard from John?” I ask Mr. Johnathan.

  “No, but I probably wouldn’t unless he was really close. It’ll be the base station over at Charlie Dixon’s place that’ll pick him up if he’s far off.” Mr. Johnathan picks up his keys. “I’m off to go speak with the reverend. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Mother and I discuss the food preparations for the wedding.

  “Johnathan has prepared well,” she says. “Even so, we must be careful. I have a list of things I’m planning to prepare. Let’s talk about them.”

  Time seems to fly. The door opens a while later, and Mr. Johnathan comes in.

  “I talked with Brother Scott. He said he would be honored to marry you and John. He and his wife will be here shortly before 4:00 tomorrow. He said he would bring some prepared vows, or if you have your own, that would be okay with him, too.”

  I’m sitting in a large leather chair in the great room, my feet tucked underneath me while I observe my mother and John’s father. Mother is making all kinds of gestures and is mostly talking to herself. From time to time, Mr. Jonathan says, “Yes,” “That’s fine,” and “Whatever you want.” I start to laugh.

  Mother and Mr. Johnathan stop what they are doing and look over at me. In unison, they say, “What?”

  I snicker. “Nothing.”

  The clock strikes 2:00.

  A vehicle is approaching up the drive. Mr. Johnathan looks through one of the windows, then runs to the door and opens it. In steps Will, who embraces his grandfather. I jump up and dash to the door, tears in my eyes. I grab Will and hug him close.

  “Oh, Will, it is so good to see you! It truly is!”

  I pull back and kiss him on the cheek. He seems bashful. What else should I expect? I’ve never hugged him like this before and certainly not with tears in my eyes. Ryan steps in and closes the door. They are the only two. My heart is starting to flutter.

  “Will, where is Lizzy? Your father?”

  Will’s face distorts in pain and uncertainty. His eyes start to water.

  My anxiety increases. “Where is John?” I ask Ryan more firmly, panic beginning to overtake me. “Ryan, where are Lizzy and John!”

  Ryan’s eyes are moist. “Mike is putting a team together. We’re going back out to search for them.”

  The room is spinning. I reach out and grab Mr. Johnathan’s arm. He leads me to the couch, and Mother sits next to me. Inside I plead, Oh dear God! Please! Please! Bring them home!

  “We found Lizzy and Will at Tom Hickman’s camp,” Ryan says. “The biker gang was already there. There was a battle. We killed most of the bikers, but one got away, taking Lizzy with him. John was not far behind and in pursuit when I saw them last. I couldn’t follow. We had injured I had to get to medical treatment. Ted got shot in the leg, and Tom Hickman was shot in the chest. Ted is going to be okay, provided no infections sets in. The nurse at the ER said he had to stay off of it for a week or so. Tom Hickman was shot several times. He’s still at the hospital. It’s touch and go for him. The hospital agreed to let him stay as long as we bring his food and pay five gallons of gas per day. They wouldn’t let his wife Sue stay. She was roughed up, too. Lynn Wright was raped. Sue, Lynn, Heather, and Amy are staying with Ted and his wife for the time being. Jimmy Wright is dead. We will find them, Jill. I promise.”

  Ryan is John’s friend. He’s my friend, too. He has done so much and is going to risk his life for John again. Yet I can’t speak to him. Words won’t come out. I turn to the only one who can help me in this time of great need. I go to my knees by the couch and begin interceding for John and Lizzy. My mother kneels beside me, then Mr. Johnathan, Ryan, and Will.

  Chapter 65

  John

  You Used to be My Friend!

  Day 13

  I lower my rifle. I just can’t take the shot. The big bastard has Lizzy in front of him, speeding away. There is no time for words, no time to look around. I sprint for the nearest bike, then sling the rifle over my neck, letting it hang in front. It's been a long, long time since I’ve been on a motorcycle. I get on, turn the key, and kick the starter. It cranks on the second kick. I put it in gear and give it gas as I pull away. I speed up, quickly working through the gears, thanking God I still remember how to do this. Although the big bastard is out of sight, his trail of dust is easy to follow.

  Dear God, guide my way. Place me upon the right path. Amen.

  The fuel tank is less than half full. Glancing at my watch, I note it's 11:15. Our first shots were fired at 11:00. Everything is happening so fast! I click the mic on the radio.

  “Tinman to Maverick.”

  No reply.

  “Tinman to Goose.”

  No reply.

  Things were happening so fast I didn’t have time to tell the guys what I was doing. I try to call again, still no response. Am I out of range already? Surely I wasn’t when I made my first call. Has something happened to my friends? Were there more of those bastards hiding we were unaware of? Did our ambush of the bikers turn into an ambush of my friends? I check the radio to make sure the batteries are good. That’s when I discover the bullet that hit me in the chest hit the radio first before being stopped by the armor plate. The body armor saved my life, but the radio was destroyed. Every breath I take burns deep inside.

  Will!

  Will was on the ground, hurt, yet I didn’t even speak to my son!

  Dear God, protect Will and my friends. Guide me to Lizzy!

  The big bastard is still out of sight, yet the dust trail is strong. I’m taking a big risk driving this fast on the washboard road, but I must get to Lizzy. To fail will mean her certain rape and death. I’ve driven most of the public roads in the county but not this one. I hope it dead ends up ahead. Shortly, I see it doesn't and slow for the turn. The dust trail is to the left, and it’s getting thicker. I’m catching up. This road I do recognize, though it’s been several years since I’ve been on it. This is the Carlton Oilfield Road. Years ago, I did a lot work down here before selling the construction part of my business right after Kathy’s death. There are countless miles of roads down here. Many, many roads branching off, going deeper into the swamps of lower Clarke County. I wonder if this bastard knows where he is going. Did they take over one of the camps down here? Am I going to run into a whole hive of these bastards?

  I catch a glimpse of the bike up ahead. He must have slowed down, thinking he’s free. Either that or because of all the potholes and dips in the road. The road is pretty rough in places, and driving fast is risky, but I can't let him get away.

  It used to take nearly half an hour during the dry season to drive my truck down this road to the beginning of the oilfield. During the wet season, it would take longer. Sometimes the road would be impassible due to river backwater and washouts. There are many more miles of camp, hunting, and logging roads. Some of them lead to camps owned by “prepper” types. I’ve met a few of them. Most seemed like nice people only wanting others to mind their own business and leave them alone. Some have been narcissistic rear ends. With civilization falling apart, they’re liable to shoot strangers on sight. If the bastard goes the wrong way, he could get us all killed.

  We hit a stretch of good road along the edge of the dead river, and I open the bike up. There are a group of armed men on 4-wheelers near the bank of the dead river. They try waving the big bastard down, but he speeds right through. They try to block my path by moving one of the 4-wheelers into the road, and I’m able maneuver around it without slowing. The men are cursing and screaming but have fired no shots.

  When I’m about a hundred yards back, the bastard realizes I’m behind him and speeds up. I’m losing ground. The 4-wheelers are in the road now in pursuit but rapidly falling away. We're fast approaching the beginning of the oilfield. As he slows for the sharp turns, I have to do so as well. The two hairpin turns have allowed me to gain ground, but in the straight stretch he is pulling away again. There are several turns that go into different parts of the o
ilfield and deeper into the swamps, each one a hairpin. If he takes the turns, I can gain on him again. If he stays straight, he’ll keep pulling farther away, but the road we’re on ends at an oil pump pad with six pump jacks, maybe two miles ahead.

  The bastard stays straight. This chase is soon to come to an end. I start bracing myself for the conflict to come. The road makes a sweeping, forty-five degree bend to the right. The bastard is at the far end of the oil pump pad, dismounting from his bike. I enter the pad and stop the bike. Killing the ignition, I quickly dismount, letting the bike fall to the side. I raise my AR to my shoulder, flipping the throw-down lever on the optic back to 1X. My rifle is in the firing position, and the chevron of the reticle is bright and clear. I approach with both eyes open, the reticle dancing on the guy’s head with each step I take.

  He has his left arm around Lizzy’s neck, holding her in front of him, his 1911 pistol pointing at Lizzy’s head. The hammer is cocked, and his finger is on the trigger. When I’m about thirty feet away, he says, “That’s close enough, Johnny Boy, unless you want to see the inside of her head.”

  I stop, my rifle still in the firing position. I’m breathing heavily, unable to keep the reticle steady. I consider the offset required for my point of aim at this close distance. Yet I can’t shoot. Lizzy is too close, and the bastard’s finger is on the trigger of his pistol.

  “Oh, Johnny Boy, I’ve been looking for you. Mr. Johnny too good. Always interfering where you don’t belong. You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  I’m searching my memories while keeping the AR ready, hoping for an opportunity to shoot. A flash of a lunch room in elementary school trading sandwiches. My PB&J for his bologna. A flash in the seventh grade of me and him playing a prank on Kathy. Then the fight in the eighth grade, then twelfth grade, and finally in the Walmart parking lot. The man in front of me is Clyde Baker, Lizzy’s father.

  “You do recognize me.”

  “I know who you are. If you have a grudge to settle, let her go, and we can settle it man to man.”

  He starts laughing. “I’m going to kill you, Johnny, for always getting in my way and ruining my life.”

  “You mean for always kicking your sorry ass. Your own sorriness is what’s ruined your life.”

  That makes him mad. A mad man doesn't think clearly; he may make a mistake. I push harder.

  “And now, being the coward you are, you're hiding behind a little girl, too afraid to confront me man to man.”

  The anger in his voice real, yet he seems to be controlling it. “Lay the rifle down, take your armor off, and I’ll let her go.”

  I consider my options. I’m not going to be able to hold the rifle in this position much longer, and I can’t take the shot now, either. I take a chance. Holding the rifle grip with my right hand, I use my left to remove the sling from around my neck. Placing my left hand back on the handguard, I flip the safety on and drop my right hand to my side, close to my Glock, and toss the AR to the side. Clyde holsters his pistol, leaving his hand close by.

  “Now let her go.”

  “Johnny, where’s your sense of fairness?” Clyde taunts. “Toss your body armor, and I’ll toss mine.”

  Taking the body armor off is going to expose me to a lot more risk. It’s already saved my life once today. Still, I don’t have much choice. I can’t attack this guy as long as he’s using Lizzy for a shield. I yank on the breakaway cord, and the body armor separates into two pieces, front and back. I shove these off and to the ground. Using my left hand, I remove my helmet. Clyde releases his hold around Lizzy’s neck and shoves her hard to the side. She falls but gets up quickly and runs to the pumping unit. We’re both standing there, our hands mere inches away from our pistols. I have to find a way to survive. If I die, so will Lizzy.

  I taunt him, hoping to make him make a mistake. “Drop the pistol, and I’ll whip your ass again, right here.”

  Clyde laughs. “Oh no, Johnny. I learned my lesson about your little MMA crap. I’ve been planning on this for a long time. The EMP has opened the door. I already took care of my stepdad and old man Cunningham. After I finish with you, I’m going to kill those other two bastards and that bitch who ruined my life. Johnny, you’re going to die today!”

  There is evil in this man’s face. He once was a boy. What brought him to this end? What turned him into such a monster?

  “If you have a grudge, let’s settle it right here, right now. Me and you. Why hurt anybody else?”

  “Johnny too good, always worrying about others. You won’t have to worry for long, ‘cause you’re going to be dead soon. Then me and this little girl are going to get to know each other really well. When I finish with her, Repose is going to burn!”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re talking out of your mind. What happened to you? What turned you into this monster standing in front of me?”

  “Don’t worry about what the hell happened to me!” he snaps in a nasty tone. “Don’t think I don’t know who she is. She was the result of a good time on a drunken Saturday night, and she’ll be a good time tonight. Then I’m going to find her mama and—”

  I make my move. Time slows to a crawl. It’s like I’m standing outside looking in. My left palm presses against my midsection as my right hand grasps the grip of my Glock. An instant before I pull up on the pistol, my right forefinger depresses the holster release. My elbow comes up, and my forearm straightens. As the pistol passes in front of my body, my left hand molds around the grip with my right. The orange front sight lines up with the left chest of my adversary and rests perfectly in the notch of the rear sight. I squeeze the trigger and the 135 gr projectile exits the barrel at over 1,100 feet per second. Clyde is faster than me. He has drawn his 1911 and fired from the hip. The 45 ACP round impacts my left hip, knocking me off balance and spinning me to the ground before I can fire a second shot. I hit the ground hard with my chest, searing pain emanating from my left side. Immediately, I turn my head to face my adversary. He is still standing, staring at a red spot spreading left of the center of his chest. His arms and 1911 are hanging down. I pull my right arm around and lining the sights up, fire two rapid shots while still lying on the ground. Both projectiles punch into his left chest. He goes to his knees, then falls on to his face.

  I reach underneath me, searching for the wound, finding the damp, warm spot. Trembling, I bring my wet fingers before my face. I see no blood. I struggle to stand. The pain in my hip is intense. I check closer but find no blood. The bullet struck my magazine pouch that still contained two full AR magazines. They must have stopped the bullet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lizzy standing, watching the scene before her.

  I stagger over to Clyde, scanning the area as I do. With difficulty, I kneel down beside him and remove the 1911 from his hand and put it in my waistband. I holster my Glock and roll him over. He’s taking shallow breaths, large amounts of blood leaking from his chest. There is nothing I can do for him.

  His eyes are upon me. “Why?” I ask.

  His life is ebbing away and will be gone in a matter of moments. With a feeble hand, he grips my shirt. In a weak and faltering voice, he says, “Want to trade sandwiches?” His eyes lose focus, and his hand falls to the ground. Clyde is dead.

  I start sobbing, my body shaking. “What happened to you!” I scream. “You used to be my friend!” Memories of long years ago flood my mind.

  A gentle hand touches my shoulder. “Jill, I don’t want to be a killer!” I shout.

  “Mr. Carter, it’s not Jill. It’s Lizzy. Are you all right?” The touch and the voice bring me back from my deep sadness.

  “Of course, it’s you. I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

  I stand. The pain in my hip makes it difficult to move, yet there is no time for the pain and the sorrow. Not right now. I clear my mind and shove the emotions and pain deeper inside.

  I attempt to stand the bike up. Seeing me struggle, Lizzy is quickly by my side helping me. It’s going to have to sit a li
ttle while for the oil to drain down.

  My mouth is dry, and I reach for the water bottle on my belt. It’s busted. The shrapnel from the bullet impact has shredded the bottle. My other water is in my day pack where I dropped it before the assault on the bastards at Tom Hickman’s cabin. There are some water treatment tabs in the personal survival kit in a pouch on my belt, but I have no desire to try purifying this nasty swamp water.

  “Lizzy, I’m sorry. I have no water.”

  She walks up to me and hugs me close. “Mr. Carter, you saved my life! Thank you. Thank you.”

  I return her embrace despite the intense pain in my ribs. “Everything is going to be all right, Lizzy. I’m going to take you home.”

  I find my AR and place the sling around my neck. The magazine is maybe half full. The mags in my pouch are useless now. My other spare mags are in my day pack. I replace the magazine in my Glock then reassemble the body armor. I run my fingers around the armor plates, checking for damage. Other than the destroyed radio, I find no damage.

  I hold the armor out to Lizzy. “I want you to wear this until we get home. I know it’s heavy, but I need you to keep it on. Let me help you put it on.”

  “Okay, Mr. Carter.”

  I don’t want to leave Clyde like this. He once was my friend. Scanning around the oil pump pad, I see a parked front end loader. I climb in and fire it up.

  “Lizzy, stand over there by the pump jack like you were earlier, okay?”

  She nods and jogs over to the pumping unit. I cover Clyde with three large scoops of dirt then park the loader.

  “Lizzy, let’s go.”

  She runs over to where I am by the bike. That’s when the 4-wheelers arrive. The sound of the loader had masked their approach. There is little time to react.