Rockabilly Limbo

by William W. Johnstone

  “You could have stopped him,” Pete confronted Cole.

  “I didn’t see him leave, Pete.”

  “But you just said that you suspected he was going to pull something.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You never did like my boy.”

  “That is also correct.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone, Pete?” Gene asked.

  The man shook his head.

  “Sure he does,” Cole said, the cop in him surfacing. “Bob’s gone to find some of his punk-assed friends.”

  Jane started squalling louder than ever.

  “I’m going to find him,” the father said, his face red with anger.

  Cole shrugged his shoulders. “Your choice.”

  The man whirled around and stalked to his truck. He jerked back the tarp and began tossing boxes to the ground. “I’m taking only what I brought with me.”

  “Take what you need, Pete,” Cole told him.

  “Hell with you!”

  “He was part of a gang, Mr. King,” Anne Mercer said, after exchanging glances with Pat Winfield. “They were into everything. Dope, stealing, you name it.”

  “You’re a liar, girl!”

  “I’m not lying, sir.”

  “Goddamn, lying little slut!”

  “Watch your mouth, Pete,” James cautioned.

  “Fuck you, too! Fuck all of you. None of you ever liked Bob. I’m sure he left because of your dislike toward him.” Pete snugged down the tarp, got into the truck, and drove away without looking back, the rear tires slinging rocks and dirt.

  “Cops can be wrong in their hunches,” James said to Cole, after the pickup had vanished in a cloud of dust.

  “Not about that punk,” Cole replied. “Let’s pack up and get gone from here.”

  “What about Pete and Jane?” Al asked.

  They all learned something about Cole that day. Cole looked long at Al Winfield and said, “He made his choice, Al. He’s on his own.”

  “That’s hard, Cole,” James Mercer said.

  Cole shifted his gaze. “I can be a hell of a lot harder than that, friend.” He turned and walked to his tent, began bringing it down.

  Tina whispered to her husband, “That’s a tough man, Dads.”

  Gene nodded his head in agreement. “I don’t think we’ve seen just how tough. Yet.”

  * * *

  The military policeman carefully inspected the passes given the group by Scott Frey. Finally, he nodded his head. “Okay, folks. You can enter. But that bunch,” he looked at Gene and his friends, “have to stay put.”

  “We picked them up along the way, Lieutenant,” Cole explained. “They were under attack by some of General Worthingham’s people. Just before that, we had to shoot our way through a roadblock set up by something called the Cumberland Christian Militia. It hasn’t been a real pleasant past twenty-four hours. They’re good people, so how about you cutting us a little slack.”

  The lieutenant smiled and nodded his head. “Okay, Mr. Younger. Go on through. But put those yellow stickers on your windshields first. On the inside. They’re good anywhere in Tennessee.”

  Cole shook the soldier’s hand. “Thanks.”

  “And don’t lose those FBI passes.”

  “Right.”

  There were parts of Nashville that had not been terribly touched by the insanity. Some blocks and blocks long. But the block where the Mercers, the Kings, and the Winfields had lived was destroyed. Every home was either gutted or burned completely down to the foundation. And no matter where they went, they could not get away from the sounds of gunfire.

  Alice kicked at the ashes that were once the Mercer home. “I wonder if the insurance will pay for this?”

  “They might not,” her husband told her. “I’ve seen policies with clauses in them about damage caused by war and civil disorder.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, our policy was in a lock box in my study.” He pointed to the ruins. “It’s buried in there somewhere.”

  Al and Denise walked back over from the ruins of their home, two foundations away. “They say change is good for the soul,” Al said. “I guess we’ll see if that’s true. For we’re sure faced with some changes.”

  “What do you want to do now, Cole?” James asked.

  “Head for Memphis. Unless you people want to stick around here for a time.”

  “Cole?” Katti said, touching his arm. “Look over there across the street, behind that shed. Isn’t that the truck that Pete and Jane left in this morning?”

  “That’s the King home,” James said. “Or where it used to be. At least the shed survived. Yeah. That’s the truck Pete was driving.”

  “Let’s go take a look,” Jim suggested. “Some of you stay with the vehicles and gear.”

  They found Pete lying face down beside his truck, badly beaten and unconscious. Jane was huddled in the shed, apparently in some sort of shock. She looked as though she’d been slapped around some, but suffered no serious physical damage.

  Cole yelled for Jackie Prescott to come over with the first-aid kit. He did not want to move Pete until someone qualified, like Jackie, checked him over.

  “I can’t feel any broken ribs,” she said. “But he’s had the shit beat out of him, for sure. Let’s turn him over, carefully, now.”

  “His nose looks broken,” James said.

  “It is,” Jackie told him. “And it’s a blessing he’s unconscious.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to straighten it out. Give me a couple of those cotton swabs out of the kit, so I can check air passages.”

  When she started doing that, Al grimaced and said, “Excuse me. I’ll go back and stay with the vehicles.”

  “How’s Jane?” Jackie called, just as she popped an ampule under Pete’s nose to try to bring him around.

  “Incoherent,” Ruth said. “But I don’t think she’s badly hurt. Just scared and in mild shock.”

  “Bob,” Pete muttered, pushing the words past swollen lips. “Bob.”

  “He’s coming around,” Jackie said. “What about Bob, Pete? What about him? Where is he?”

  “Don’t know,” Pete whispered. He opened his eyes. The area around the eyes would soon be changing colors due to having been battered by a fist. “I knew . . . all along that you were right, Cole. I ... apologize to you . . . all. Parent’s stiff-necked . . . pride, I suppose.”

  “Wet a cloth,” Jackie said. “Let’s clean him up.”

  “Jane . . . ?” Pete mumbled.

  “She’s all right,” Jackie told him. “Scared, but not badly hurt.”

  “What happened, Pete?” James asked his long time friend.

  “The shed,” Pete muttered, cutting his eyes. “Under the floor at the rear of the building. That’s where . . . Bob . . .” He sighed heavily. “... Where Bob kept his dope. He’s . . . a dealer. Marijuana, cocaine, crack, amphetamines. The whole . . . rotten bag.” He groaned as he sat up, but he made it with help from Jackie. “Bob’s running with a ... well, running with is not the right choice of . . . words . . . I guess. He’s the leader of a gang. A gang of ... punks. Goddamn them . . . all. He came back here for . . . the dope. I caught him. He ... laughed at me. Called me all sorts of ... vile names. Slapped his mother when she tried to talk to him. The others with him . . . all about the same age. Seventeen to twenty, I suppose. Started making disgusting suggestions about what they were going to do . . . with Bob’s mother. Really filthy things. I ... couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Words like that from the mouths of ... boys. I’ll never think of a seventeen-year-old ... as a boy again. Not after . . . this. I grabbed Bob by the shoulder and that’s . . . that’s when he hit me. Caught me by surprise. Never . . . dreamed a son would do that to his father. The other punks . . . had Jane up against the outside wall of the shed. They . . . they were running their hands all over ... her body. I tried to get up off the . . . ground. Bob kicked me in the face. Things sorta went hazy after that. They a
ll started beating and kicking me. I blacked out. The . . . last thing I heard, over Jane’s screaming . . . was Bob, laughing at me.” He put his hands to his face and started crying.

  Two Hum Vees pulled up by the curb and several heavily armed soldiers got out and walked over toward the group. Cole met them halfway, the FBI passes in his hand. The sergeant, wearing a 101st patch on his shoulder, looked at the passes and returned them to Cole.

  “What’s going on here, Mr. Younger?”

  “A son turned on his father. Had a gang with him. They beat up the father pretty bad. The boy’s a dope dealer.”

  “Lot of that going around,” the sergeant remarked. “It’s madness. That’s all I can call it. Is the man injured badly enough to be hospitalized?”

  “I don’t think so. But it probably wouldn’t hurt to have a doctor look at him.”

  The sergeant shook his head. “In this whole city, we got two hospitals open. Taking emergency cases only. Let me see if I can get one of my combat medics over here, okay?”

  “I would appreciate it, Sergeant, thanks.”

  A medic checked Pete over and said about the same thing that Jackie had said, adding, “You’re going to be plenty sore for a few days, Mister. I’d try to take it easy and rest up. I’ll give you these pain pills. I can’t spare many. Use them only if you have to. When they’re gone, we’re out.”

  “It’s that bad?” Hank asked.

  “Yes, sir. And getting worse.”

  The sergeant said, “If you folks want to stay in the city, we have safe zones for you—”

  “No,” Jane said, leaning up against the side of the shed. “No, we won’t be staying in town. We’re going on with our ... friends. If they’ll have us, that is.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” the sergeant said. “But good luck to you all. Just get out of the city before nightfall. That brings out the human crud and crap. It gets real dangerous.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Cole said.

  The group was on the road to Memphis within the hour.

  Eight

  The group made camp in a patch of woods about forty miles west of Nashville, just north of Interstate 40. Pete finally gave up attempting to talk about his son, for every time he did, an invisible chorus would start singing, “Oh My Papa,” and drown out his words.

  “Why don’t you shut up and go away?” Hank finally said, looking all around him.

  “Well,” the voice jumped out of the twilight. “Actually, that’s what I plan to do. But I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite group. You’re such a fun and resourceful bunch.”

  “Then leave,” Hank said.

  “Now, now, priest,” the voice was soothing. “Don’t be such a sore loser.”

  “Loser?” Hank questioned. “We haven’t lost, you cosmic prick.”

  “Ummm. Well, that’s quite true. But you people are the exception, not the rule. Personally, had I not seen it, I would never have believed it. Especially since you took in that shag-nasty pack of aging hippies. However, the game is far from over.”

  “Game?” Gene Rockland questioned. “This is a game?”

  “Oh, shut up, you stupid, hairy abomination. Speak when you’re spoken to.”

  Gene’s face flushed in anger, he opened his mouth and his wife whispered, “Hush, Dads.”

  “Words of wisdom,” the voice said. “Well, I really must be leaving. But I will leave behind a, ah, subordinate, so to speak, to drop in on you all from time to time. It’s sad to say, but my presence is really no longer needed. My work is done. So, I’ll let the human factor take it from here. Watch your asses, kiddies. Ta-ta!”

  For a moment, the darkening day was filled with the raucous sounds of “Night Train.” Then . . . silence.

  “I ... would never have guessed the devil had a sense of humor,” Harry Slayden said.

  “Such as it is,” Hank added.

  “You think he’s, it’s . . . ah, really gone?” Katti asked.

  “I think he is,” Hank said, standing up. “I think he’s going to let the human race screw it up from this point. And we are certainly capable of doing that.”

  Tina Rockland slowly shook her head.

  “What’s the matter?” her husband asked.

  “I was just wondering, when the time comes, how I would explain all this to our grandbabies.”

  “Woman, will you worry about how we’re going to get through this crap alive, then you can worry about grandkids!”

  “It never hurts to be prepared, Dads.”

  “That’s what you said, nine months before our last kid was born.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” Tina said with an innocent expression.

  * * *

  The convoy pulled off the interstate and onto the secondary road, parking in front of the ruins of Katti and Cole’s home. It had been gutted by fire. Cole and Katti got out, walked through the yard, and looked in through the empty space where the picture window had been. The interior was blackened by fire.

  “Fire didn’t hurt the native rock exterior, Katti,” Cole said. “We can rebuild, if you want to.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Cole. I want to go out west, to the Rockies, Make a whole new start. If that’s all right with you.”

  “Suits me, Katti. As soon as the currency situation gets straightened out and banks are up and functioning, we can make plans. But first we have to know where we stand financially. And that’s going to take some time.”

  Katti turned away from the ruins. “Let’s go, Cole. There is nothing left here to salvage.”

  * * *

  “Well, I’ll just be damned!” the Tennessee Highway Patrolman at the 1-40 roadblock at the city limits of Memphis said, upon sighting Jim. “Jim Deaton. Man, it’s good to see a friendly face.”

  “How you doing, Brent?” Jim asked, shaking hands.

  “So so, partner.” He looked at the others. “Quite a group with you.”

  “Actually, Cole here is the ramrod.” They were introduced. Jim said, “What’s left of Memphis, Brent?”

  “Not much, ol’ buddy. The governor finally said to seal it off and let the rioters and looters and gangs and thugs and punks have at each other until they’re all dead.”

  “How about these right-wing religious groups that are springing up all over the place?” Cole asked. “We can all attest to the fact that they’re dangerous.”

  “Tell me,” the highway cop said. “Six Troopers, so far, have been shot by those fruitcakes. Two died. But we’re so shorthanded there is damn little we can do except man these roadblocks and try to keep the city punks contained.”

  Jim told the Trooper about the Temple of the Apocrypha and the CCM and Brother Ely and Hiram and John Burnside and the militias.

  By now, a half-dozen more state and local cops and federal people had gathered around, listening quietly and very intently.

  Cole and the others added what they knew about the situation.

  “Intelligence has been so thin, we really don’t know what was happening outside the cities,” a man wearing a jumpsuit with the letters ATF front and back said.

  “I’ll tell you this much,” Gene Rockland said to the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms man. “You go out in the country wearing that outfit, and you won’t live five minutes. You guys come in right behind the IRS on the most hated government agency list.”

  “Believe me, we know,” the ATF man replied. “But damnit, all we’ve ever done has been to follow orders.”

  Gene gave him a look that spoke silent volumes.

  Cole stepped in to defuse the growing situation. “Can we enter Memphis?”

  “At your own risk,” an FBI agent said. “But I would advise against it, because there is nothing left to salvage. What the punks didn’t loot, they burned. Hell, you can see the smoke from here. It’s been that way for weeks. Same with nearly every city you’d care to name. Little Rock, Arkansas, Jackson, Mississippi, Shreveport, Louisiana, St. Louis, Missouri. H
ouston blew wide open. New Orleans is a battleground. Or it was. Now there’s nothing left.”

  “What are the plans for currency, saving accounts, pension plans, investments?” Ruth asked.

  “God only knows, ma’am,” a Trooper replied. “As far as I know, nobody’s got that far yet. We’re just trying to keep people from killing each other. And obviously not doing a very good job of that,” he added.

  Ruth told the city police, state policemen, and federal agents her address in the city.

  A very tired-looking city cop shook his head. “All that is gone, ma’am. Looted and burned. The, ah, affluent areas were the first to go. Shrinks are saying that was due to built-up rage on the part of the have-nots directed against the haves. In my opinion, it was done by a bunch of sorry-assed, worthless people. Pardon my expression.”

  “Nevertheless,” Ruth said. “I need to get to what is left of my house.”

  “We won’t stop you, ma’am.”

  Cole, Jim, Gary, and Bev would escort Ruth to the ruins of her mansion. The rest of the group would stay on the east side of the roadblock. Jim and Ruth had become quite close, and she rode with him in his vehicle, Cole behind them, Gary and Bev in the rear.

  They passed several groups of people on the way to Ruth’s old neighborhood, but only one person tried to stop them: a wild-eyed black man with a sawed-off shotgun, screaming obscenities and threats. He made the mistake of pointing the shotgun at Cole as he drove past. Cole shot him twice in the face with his 9 mm and drove on.

  It came as a surprise when they found the home still standing. The interior was destroyed, but the walls were still up.

  “What are we looking for, Ruth?” Jim asked, while Cole, Bev, and Gary stood guard outside, M-16s at the ready.

  She smiled. “Krugerrands. Worth about a million dollars. And several million dollars’ worth of precious stones and other articles. And a, quarter of a million dollars in cash. After my husband bought the house, he had a security firm come in from out of state to build a safe in the floor of his study. That safe would have survived a nuclear blast.”

  “Now I know why you made sure there were shovels in the truck this morning.”

  She grinned at him. “And a heavy pry bar.”