Half Past Midnight

by Jeff Brackett

  “Doubtful.” There wasn’t much more to say. We were turning to go back to the van when she stopped and, with a puzzled expression, went back up to the crest. She studied the wreckage intently for a minute or more. “What do you suppose happened?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What exactly do you think caused the wreck?”

  I shrugged. “It looks to me as if the second van down there got rear-ended, and the gas tank blew.”

  The van I pointed out lay on its side on the shoulder. One of the back doors rested on the grass, about thirty feet away. The other door was missing completely, along with most of the rear end of the van. It must have been one hell of an explosion.

  “I guess the gas sprayed on the other cars, and the drivers panicked and wrecked into each other.” Even as I said it, though, something felt wrong. I was missing something.

  Debra pointed it out. “If they were rear-ended hard enough to cause an explosion like that, shouldn’t the station wagon’s front end be smashed up, too? It was next in line. And what caused the truck in front to wreck?”

  I didn’t like where this was leading. I didn’t like it at all.

  Debra caught it, too. “Someone ambushed them.”

  Quickly, we backed down the hill until we could no longer be seen from the other side. Both of us thought about the implications of the situation. Debra finally asked the question that was on both our minds. “So, now what?”

  I thought for a second longer. “Well, we can’t very well turn back, and it would be another eighty miles to go around. We’re half an hour away from being home free, and we don’t know how long we have before things get really rough.”

  She crossed her arms as if she were cold. “Looks like they already are.”

  “You know what I mean.” We were both all too aware of the nuclear war in the offing.

  “Yeah.”

  I looked over at her. “We’ve got to go through.”

  She stared back at me as if I’d lost my mind. “And I suppose whoever blew the hell out of those people down there is just going to smile and wave as we drive past? Get serious, Lee.”

  “No,” I agreed. “It won’t be that easy. I’ll have to go down first and scout the area. Find out if it’s safe.”

  “And if it isn’t?”

  “Then I’ll come back very quietly and let you know.” I grinned in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. “I’m not about to take any chances, babe. First sign of trouble and I’m out of there.”

  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating the other side of the hill. “Fine. But what if they have other ideas?”

  I could see that her mood was rapidly deteriorating, and I was beginning to get a little exasperated myself. “Look, Debra, we don’t even know if there is anyone. I doubt there is, honestly.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. I certainly hoped that whoever had massacred that convoy had had the good sense to move on immediately afterward. But they might just as easily have been lying in wait down there, hoping the wreckage would attract more victims as they came to help. I wasn’t about to mention this to my wife, however.

  “Well, if you don’t think there’s anyone down there, let’s just take our chances and drive on through. We could probably make it through on the right shoulder without any problems.”

  Uh, oh. “I just said I doubt that there’s anyone there. I can’t be sure until I go down and check it out.”

  She mulled it over for a moment. “But you really don’t think there’s anyone there?”

  Good. She was giving in. “No, I really don’t.”

  Her smile was very nearly vicious. “Okay then, which side do you want?”

  I gaped stupidly as the implications sank into my skull. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if there’s no danger, and this is just a precaution, then two of us should get it done twice as fast. And you did mention that time is of the essence.” Her smug grin was infuriating.

  “Now wait a minute!” I nearly exploded. “I just said I didn’t think that there was anyone there. There’s no guarantee that I’m right. And if you think I’m going to let you risk yourself just because you happen to have a stubborn streak, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  Well, that did it. Her grin disappeared, and genuine anger laced her voice. “And if you think I’m about to go sit in the van and twiddle my thumbs while you go play GI Joe, then you are sadly mistaken!”

  Our voices had risen as we argued, and the kids looked up the hill. Struggling to stay calm, I asked in a low whisper, “What if I’m wrong, Debra? What if there’s trouble?”

  “’Then I’ll come back very quietly and let you know.’ I think that was exactly how you put it, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh, come on! Listen, I know how you feel, but be reasonable, for Christ’s sake!”

  Major mistake. Her voice was suddenly icy cold. “Be reasonable?” she hissed. “I am being reasonable. You’re the one that thinks that just because you’re a man, you’re more qualified to walk in the woods. Well, you listen to me for a second, mister. I’m smaller than you, lighter than you, and can outrun you. And unless I miss my guess, your precious martial arts training doesn’t teach diddly about woodland stalking, so I’m just as well-trained at that as you are. So what do you have to say to that, Mr. Haiya-mama kung fu super shit?”

  To say she was pissed off would be like comparing Krakatoa to a Roman candle. The thing that bothered me was that, when I really stopped to consider, she was correct on all counts. I was acting like a stereotypical insecure, macho male. I knew that on an intellectual level. But this was my family, damn it! I didn’t want to chance any of them getting hurt if I could possibly help it.

  Logic and emotion battled. Logic presented a way out. “All right, what do you suggest?”

  Surprise quickly replaced the anger in her eyes. “What?”

  I shrugged. “You’re right. I’m being an idiot. So what do you suggest we do?”

  Quickly recovering her composure, she replied, “Just what I said a minute ago. You take one side, and I’ll take the other. We’ll get done twice as fast and be on our way as quickly as possible.”

  “All right.” I nodded amiably. “But what about the kids?”

  She paused, appearing less certain. “They’ll stay in the van. You showed Megan how to use the rifle, so they should be just fine.”

  “Fine. But what if something does happen to us? Not that anything will, but what if? Say that there is someone down there, and they kill us,” I said bluntly. “Or even if they just capture us and try to ransom us for the supplies in the van. Do you think Megan could handle a situation like that on her own?”

  Debra was quiet, thinking. Finally, she shrugged. “Okay, you’re right. One of us needs to stay with the kids. But I still think that I should do the scouting. I’m smaller and quieter, so I have a better chance of getting in and out without being seen.”

  “But if there’s trouble, I’m the one who’s trained to handle it,” I countered.

  I pulled a quarter out of my pocket. “Flip you for it.”

  Chapter 4

  June 13 / 6:03 p.m.

  Le bras pendant a la iambe liee,

  Visage pasle, au sein poignard cache,

  Trois qui seront iurez de la meslee

  Au grand de Genues sera le fer laschee.

  His arm hung and leg bound,

  Face pale, dagger hidden in his bosom,

  Three who will be sworn in the fray

  Against the great one of Genoa will the steel be unleashed.

  Nostradamus — Century 5, Quatrain 28

  Watching the van as it passed around a curve and out of sight, I slipped the two-headed quarter back into my pocket. They would wait at a roadside park we had passed a mile back until six forty. No more, no less. That gave me just over half an hour.

  If I hadn’t made it back by then, Debra had agreed to backtrack and detour around the area, taking the longer alternate route. I had assured her
I would follow as soon as possible. It would mean driving an additional eighty miles, but that was better than ending up as part of the litter problem on the other side of the hill.

  I pushed the Suzuki into the woods and slipped among the trees to head over the hill. I made my way about halfway down the hill, then stopped to scan for any signs of life. Nothing.

  I moved on down, slipping from tree to tree as quietly as possible, alert for any indication that I’d been seen. Finally, I drew alongside the rearmost vehicle.

  The station wagon, about twenty years old, with what had once been imitation wood grain trim, was about twenty feet from the tree I hid behind, so I had an excellent view. In the scorched mass of melted plastic and charred paint, I saw that the windshield had shattered, and wispy tendrils of melted plastic trailed from the chromed border. The hood was blackened, and black streaks trailed down the fender. Even the front tires were melted.

  Astonishingly, the rear of the vehicle was nearly untouched except for the windows, which were all networked with the millions of breaks characteristic of overstressed safety glass. I figured the heat had probably done that, since I spotted no apparent points of impact.

  The idea of impact brought another thought to mind, and I quickly reexamined the wagon. I sighed in relief at the lack of bullet holes, at least not on the side I could see. Checking the other side would mean leaving the cover of the trees, and I wasn’t willing to risk that yet, not until I was reasonably sure there wasn’t a sentry, or ax murderer, or whatever hiding somewhere in the trees on my side of the road.

  I glanced at my watch. Only five minutes had passed since I’d come over the hill.

  Yeah, I thought, time sure flies when you’re having fun.

  It took another ten minutes of sneaking around to convince myself that no one lurked in the trees on my side of the road. Unfortunately, I also confirmed that there had been an ambush. Both vans and all of the bodies were riddled with holes, and I saw enough broken glass to tell me how the attack had probably gone.

  An initial barrage of Molotov cocktails inundated the convoy, panicking the drivers and their passengers. They abandoned their vehicles, only to be cut down by snipers in the trees. The end result lay before me. Six bodies and four gutted vehicles.

  I checked my watch. Nearly half of my time had passed, and I still had to search the other side. If it proved safe, I needed to drag the bodies out of sight. I hesitated for a moment more.

  I finally prodded myself into action. I sprinted from the trees to the side of the overturned pickup. Then I waited, listening for a response.

  Nothing. So far, so good. I ran for the trees on the far side of the road and crouched next to a large pine. The trees were quiet, and the only sound I heard was the pounding of my heart. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  I began the search, picking my way as quietly as possible through the trees, uphill to the motorcycle. I had nearly finished my inspection, keeping close track of the time, when I heard a faint buzzing coming from the thick underbrush about twenty yards ahead. Not quite a buzz, though, different somehow, but familiar.

  I listened intently, willing my heart and breath to silence so that I might identify the tantalizing sound. I finally realized that, while I sat there frozen in place by a noise in the brush, my time was steadily ticking away. I couldn’t afford to wait around for the source of the disturbance ahead to jump up and identify itself. So I stepped out from behind the tree to investigate. As I did so, two things happened simultaneously.

  The first thing was relatively insignificant. Something in my head clicked, and I finally recognized the buzzing as the faint sound of a carrier wave over an open radio channel. As soon as I realized that, I froze. That sound indicated that someone was watching the road, which in turn indicated that the road was unsafe for travel.

  Even as this ran through my head, and I prepared to carefully work my way around and up to the motorcycle, something much more critical occurred. I heard the sharp “snick-chak” of a semi-automatic handgun being cocked behind me.

  “All right, buddy, you’ve got two choices here,” the voice behind me gloated. “You can either raise your hands and come with me real quiet-like, or you can make a run for it. Who knows? You might even make it.” He paused. “Well, what’s it gonna be?”

  I could tell he was too far away for me to try for his gun and, even if he were closer, I didn’t know whether it was at the level of my head or back. Since I wasn’t feeling particularly suicidal, I surrendered. I raised my hands, glancing at my watch as I did so. Six twenty-nine, just over ten minutes left.

  “Smart move,” the voice said. “Now, why don’t you do us both a favor and unsling that machete.”

  Chancing a glance behind me to see where he was exactly, I did as he told me.

  “Face front!” he yelled. “Did I tell you to turn around? Huh? You do what I tell you, only what I tell you, and only when I tell you to do it. Got it?”

  When I failed to reply, he practically screamed, “Got it?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “You can call me ’sir,’ asshole.”

  I toyed with the idea of doing just that, but restrained myself. He might overreact if I called him “Sir Asshole,” and I really didn’t need a hole in my back. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good boy!” he sneered. “Now, why don’t you pull that pig sticker out of your belt and drop it, too. And move real slow… I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  I slowly removed the Bowie and tossed it on the ground next to the machete.

  “Okay, now stay real still.” I heard him shuffling toward me. He picked up my knife and machete then edged around, keeping about ten feet between us until he reached the bushes in front of me. The first thing I noticed was his clothing: hunter’s camouflage coveralls. He was about thirty-five, hard years, from the look of the lines on his face. Most importantly, he pointed a large-caliber handgun at my chest.

  I had a sudden, intense desire to urinate, but managed to suppress it.

  He reached into the bushes and pulled out a walkie-talkie. “Larry? It’s Frank.”

  I heard a slight British accent in the reply, “Yes Frank, what is it?”

  “Larry, I found someone sneaking around in the woods down here.”

  “So what’s the problem?” The voice sounded bored. “Kill him and get it over with.”

  The need to urinate returned instantly, more powerful than before. It took a conscious effort to hold back.

  “Naw, listen, Larry. He was snoopin’ around. Kept looking at his watch. I think he’s working with someone else.”

  Wonderful. How long had Frank been watching me?

  Pause. Then, “All right, bring him in.”

  “On my way.” Frank sneered. “Okay, prick, hands on your head.”

  When I had done so, he continued, “Now, we’re going on up the hill a little ways,” he pointed east, “and if I see your hands leave your head just once, I’m gonna put a hole in ya. Got it?”

  “Yes… sir.”

  “Good, you remembered! I’m impressed. Now move.”

  We moved out onto the road and about two-thirds of the way up the hill. There, we turned onto a small dirt road hidden from the highway by some recently planted saplings. It wound through the woods for about half a mile, ending in a small clearing dominated by a little country cabin. In front, a group of four men stood waiting, all but the largest armed with both rifles and sidearms. The exception was a huge Asian-Bruce Lee on steroids.

  Frank stopped me about ten yards away. “Wait here. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay real still.”

  He walked over to one of the armed men and held a whispered conference for a few minutes. Then the one Frank had been speaking to stepped forward. Incredibly, he actually stuck out his hand. “Good evening. My name is Larry Troutman.”

  Real smooth customer. “I’d be happy to shake hands, Larry, but your man Frank has informed me that lowering my
hands could be detrimental to my health.”

  He clucked his tongue in apparent dismay. “Frank, don’t be so antisocial. Of course you can lower your hands, Mr.…?”

  “Dawcett.”

  “Mr. Dawcett. Fine. I can see that you’re going to be most cooperative, aren’t you?”

  I guessed his smile was supposed to be reassuring. Unfortunately, it only brought to mind the “Inverse Law of Enemies,” the one that said the more civilly an enemy treated you initially, the nastier his ultimate plans.

  I could already tell I was in for an extremely rough time. Nevertheless, I shook his hand. “I’ll cooperate as much as I can, of course.” I could play games, too.

  His smile broadened. “Fine, fine. Now, would you be so kind as to hand me your wallet. Frank, what is that you’re carrying?”

  Frank handed Larry my machete and Bowie as I pulled out my wallet. Larry tossed the machete aside, but examined the knife intently, turning it over and over. “Very nice. Custom made. This must have cost you quite a bit-” He stopped mid-sentence, noticing the maker’s logo on the blade.

  “You made this?”

  I shrugged.

  “Quite impressive. A man of talent. I presume you have a sheath for it.” I unclipped it from my belt and handed it to him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dawcett.” He stuck the sheathed blade through his belt and opened my wallet to my driver’s license.

  “Mr. Dawcett… may I call you Leeland?” He went on before I could respond. “I see you’re from Houston, Leeland. That seems a long way to travel on foot.” He looked at me pointedly. “Where is your car?”

  I’d learned as a kid that the best way to lie was to tell the truth, withholding as little as possible. “I was riding a motorcycle, but some jerk in a Rabbit ran me off the road about ten miles back. I’ve been on foot ever since.”

  “In a Rabbit, you say? Was it green, by any chance?”

  I nodded. “You know him?”

  Almost wistfully, he sighed. “We recently offered him our hospitality, but he declined our invitation. Frank, how long ago did he leave us?”