Lee Harden Series (Book 3): Primal [The Remaining Universe]

by Molles, D. J.

  Mateo watched it with the interest of someone viewing a sad and somewhat revolting act of nature.

  The beggar teetered on the small of his back, arms and legs flailing, clawing at his friend—at his face, at his clothes, alternately trying to harm him, and trying to grasp hold of him to keep himself from falling.

  And then he went over.

  He didn’t scream.

  Roughly two seconds later, there was a dull thump from down below, barely audible over the heavy breathing of the man who’d tossed his friend over the side.

  Now, that man turned around, his chest heaving, but still unwilling to meet Mateo’s eyes. He took his place back in line with the rest of the sad, neutered tigers.

  Mateo thought about killing them all.

  Maybe it’s what he should’ve done.

  But his exasperation got the better of him in that moment, and he was too tired to go through all the rigmarole. There was a part of him that wanted to cut off the infected branch from his tree—namely this pervasive superstition—but the larger, more rational part of him knew that he was already hemorrhaging men because of Nadie y Ninguno. He couldn’t start massacring the people he had left.

  One would be enough.

  Enough to teach a valuable lesson.

  “The only devil around here is me,” Mateo said to the remaining four. “Nadie y Ninguno are only men. Is there anyone else that believes they cannot die? Anyone else who intends to run when they show up again?”

  Predictably, the remaining four stayed silent.

  “Leave me,” Mateo waved them off.

  They left. Quickly.

  Mateo walked to the edge and braced his hands on the safety rail. He looked over. Down to the ground.

  Two of his men stood beside a crumpled form whose brains had scattered across the ground like a burst melon. They looked up at Mateo with a question in their eyes.

  Mateo just stared down at them.

  Wordlessly, they began the work of removing the body.

  Mateo raised his eyes to the north. Somewhere out there, beyond the horizon line, the body of his closest friend and most trusted advisor lay in the hands of peasants.

  Joaquin.

  What had they done with him? How had they killed him? Had their rage been so quick and hot that they killed him quickly? Or had they pulled him limb from limb? Or burned him alive? Or done one of the terrible things that Joaquin Lozcano Leyva had done to them?

  Joaquin.

  How dare they?

  If Joaquin had been a mere man, then it might seem like justice for the things he’d done to other men. Like the karmic flow of the world. But Joaquin was a part of Mateo. They were god-like. And their destinies were intertwined. America had been a part of Joaquin’s birthright, as much as Mateo’s.

  Joaquin should not have been killed.

  His death shook Mateo’s beliefs.

  The only logical thing to do was to admit that his beliefs had been mistaken before. Joaquin was not meant to be at Mateo’s side. Joaquin must have made a mistake, somehow.

  Joaquin must not have been as god-like as Mateo.

  That was the only logical conclusion to come to.

  So, he questioned himself. What are you going to do about it?

  What was he going to do that he hadn’t already done?

  Over the course of the last five weeks, he’d done everything in his power to hunt Nadie y Ninguno down, short of completely abandoning his original plan of conquering the southern states of America.

  And he wasn’t going to upend all of that for just two men.

  He grimaced as he looked north.

  He was not a man to swallow his pride and admit he was wrong.

  But he also wasn’t a man to admit defeat.

  As much as it pained him, he needed to call on Greeley.

  They needed to come clean up their mess.

  Mateo cracked a rueful smile at the oddities of life that sometimes backed you into a corner.

  I guess I’ll burn in the fires of hell after all.

  It’s a good thing I don’t believe in them.

  ***

  Daniels snatched the satellite phone from his desk on the first ring, but then stared at the faceplate of it. Recognizing the number.

  He frowned, but a little bloom of dormant anticipation woke up inside of him.

  He extended the antenna, and pressed the answer button. Put it to his ear.

  “Mateo Ibarra,” he said, cordially. “I’m glad to hear from you again.”

  On the other end of the line there came a shush of static—or perhaps it was Mateo, sighing into the microphone.

  A corner of Daniels’s mouth twitched up.

  This was going to be interesting.

  “Mister Daniels,” Mateo said, after a pause. His voice was begrudging. Longsuffering.

  Like calling Daniels was perhaps the last thing on the face of the earth that Mateo wanted to do, right behind eating broken glass.

  Daniels thought Mateo would continue, but he didn’t, so Daniels simply smiled and prompted him: “Yes, sir. It’s me. What can I do for you today?”

  Mateo spat it out. “I cannot maintain control of my territories, continue to produce all the oil that you and I both need, and continue a manhunt for these Nadie y Ninguno characters.”

  Daniels raised his eyebrows. “These what-nows?”

  “It is Lee Harden. Or Terrence Lehy. Maybe both of them. Maybe some other guy from your so-called…what was it? Project Home and Garden?”

  Daniels leaned back in his chair. He knew that Mateo knew the name of Project Hometown. But this was a fairly low-brow jab for Mateo. He usually considered himself above such petty cock-measuring. Which meant that something was going on down in Texas that really had him nervous.

  And, apparently, that something was called Nadie y Ninguno, whatever the hell that meant in Spanish.

  So. Mateo is having problems corralling Harden and Tex. Or some other group of wannabe dissidents.

  Daniels had a good nose for opportunity.

  But he also knew when to reel a fish in, and when to let it run out a little line.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Ibarra. I understand from our previous conversation—I think it’s been over a month since I’ve heard from you last—that you didn’t want to do business with us. But I’d be happy to offer my services to consult with you, and give you any advice and intelligence I can on how to handle the situation you find yourself in.”

  “I don’t want your advice.”

  “Oh.”

  “I want you and your goddamned mercenaries to come and clean up the mess they created. And make no mistake, this is your fault. This is your mess.”

  “Yes,” Daniels said, allowing a tiny tinge of sarcasm to enter his words. “You’ve told me already how impeccably clean and orderly you keep your house. Naturally any disorder would probably be my fault.”

  “Don’t play with me, mercenary.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “You want my oil? You want to rebuild a working relationship between Nuevas Fronteras and Greeley?”

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  “Then handle it, Mr. Daniels. Handle the mess you made.”

  Daniels stared across his desk—which had once been John Bellamy’s desk—to the corkboard with the map of the United States on it and the icons on each state telling the disposition of each Project Hometown Coordinator—“In Greeley,” “Non-viable,” or “Unknown.”

  He stared, in particular, at the state of New Mexico, and the image of Captain Tully.

  Question mark.

  Unknown.

  “Yes,” Daniels said into the silence he’d left in his moment of concentration. “Actually, Mr. Ibarra, you’ll be pleased to know that I’m already working on something, as we speak.”

  ELEVEN

  ─▬▬▬─

  SUNDANCE

  One of the upsides of starving: You didn’t need to eat much to feel full.

&n
bsp; Lee chewed on the rind of a slice of salt pork. One of the foodstuffs they’d appropriated from Triprock. After so long with so little to eat, his mouth felt burned out from the salt, and his hunger had already left him. He would finish it because he knew he needed the calories. Though he wished he could be more liberal with his water bottle.

  It was mid-morning. Already the inside of their hideaway was getting hot.

  They’d slept the night before. It’d taken the edge off his exhaustion, but he could still feel it, deep in his bones.

  He sat in a creaky wooden chair, at an east-facing window. His jaw moved absently, his eyes fixed on some far-off point through the window. Out beyond, there was scrub, and waist-high grass, and copses of juniper.

  He thought about Julia.

  He thought of everything that never would be.

  Why had he even let himself think that she and him could survive all this and be together? What an idiotic thing to do. He should have never let her get close. He should never have opened himself up like that.

  Hope and love.

  They were caustic.

  All they did was strip away your defenses.

  When they were done with you, they left you raw and red and exposed.

  You were a mistake, Julia, he thought. And now everyone has to pay for it.

  Abe let out a loud snort that jerked Lee out of his thoughts.

  He glanced sidelong at Abe’s sleeping form.

  Abe had taken watch for the first half. Lee had taken it for the second half. And then he’d decided to let Abe sleep a little longer. It wouldn’t make a huge difference in the entirety of their day, and he thought that Abe needed it.

  Abe had gone to sleep at two o’clock. It was now eleven. It was evidence of the man’s own fatigue that, despite nine hours of sleep, he still hadn’t gotten up.

  But it was time.

  Nine hours would have to be enough.

  Lee finished the chewy rind, then wiped his fingers off on his pants. He stood up. The chair gave a loud protest.

  Abe didn’t even twitch. His breathing remained deep and even.

  Lee walked over to him, but stopped short. They both knew full well the dangers of actually putting hands on each other to wake them up. You were liable to take a right hook to the jaw. Or worse, since they both slept with their arms curled around loaded rifles.

  “Psst,” Lee hissed. “Abe.”

  Abe finally stirred.

  Lee pressed on, louder. This was standard operating procedure. “Abe. Wake up. You lazy bastard.”

  Abe’s eyes opened, squinting against the strong sunlight coming in the east-facing window. He rocketed upright. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Abe rubbed his face. “Wow. I feel terrible.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Eat something. I want to be at the lookout by twelve.”

  ***

  They made it there by eleven-thirty.

  The lookout was a small clearing, on a small hill, just north of the house where they’d holed up for the night, and about two thousand yards west of La Casa.

  With the exception of this small hill, the rest of the land was flat as a griddle. The hill didn’t seem like much, but at the very top, on this little clearing, it gave them enough altitude to see over the mesquite and scrub oak, and get eyes on the twenty cartel men that held La Casa.

  They traveled light, taking only water, one scoped rifle, and an M4 apiece.

  After the “liberation” of Triprock, they’d been able to get reacquainted with the weapons they’d smuggled into the settlement to arm the populace. It was nice not to have to make-do with whatever bullshit they could rob from a dead body.

  They’d also appropriated a rifle with some better range than the .30-06 they’d been using. They’d taken this one from the cartel’s stash. Found it in the back of one of their vehicles. It was a Barrett Model 95.

  Ostensibly, the .50 caliber rounds could reach out and touch someone a mile away.

  But Lee had no intention of using it today. He just liked having the capability.

  The downside was that they’d only been able to find ten rounds for it, five of which were currently in the massive rifle’s box magazine. Lee had fired it a single time, to confirm its zero, which brought their round count down to nine.

  And with only that single data point—the test shot had impacted approximately a foot low at five hundred yards—Lee wouldn’t be using it to engage at two thousand yards if he could help it.

  But you never knew.

  Lee and Abe used some scrub to build up a small hide on the hilltop, and then settled in.

  The sun stood overhead, baking their backs. Burning the dark patch of skin on the nape of Lee’s neck.

  Lee took the rifle first. Abe lounged more comfortably with his M4 in his hands, keeping an eye on their surroundings, while Lee focused downrange.

  La Casa meant “the house” and that was about all it was. A single—albeit large—house. Several barns and outbuildings which had been repurposed to house men instead of animals and farming supplies.

  A month ago, La Casa had been OP La Casa. It had been one of the numerous small outposts that Tex owned, scattered around north and central Texas. Then one night, a convoy of technicals had shown up and pushed Tex’s troops out of La Casa, then pursued them north to Caddo before finally giving up the chase.

  Looking back with hindsight, Lee believed this had been orchestrated by Cornerstone, in an attempt to draw him into attacking the Comanche Creek Nuclear Power Plant. They’d then tightened the noose on Lee’s assaulting force, and massacred Tex’s soldiers.

  That had been the night that Julia had died.

  Gone.

  It’d been slow, and yet it seemed like she’d just up and disappeared. Like the wind had taken her.

  Gut shot. But at least she’d bled out before she could go septic.

  At least she’d died with Lee holding on to her.

  That was something, right?

  Died in the rain, and the mud, and the blood. Died, and then he’d had to leave her behind. And he hadn’t been able to go back for her, and he never would. He had nothing that was hers. There had been no funeral to attend, no last rites, no grave to dig.

  No opportunity to grieve.

  All he had was a memory.

  And all the thorny things that might’ve dulled if there had been time to grieve, well they never saw the light of day, and they were never given an outlet. So they sat inside of Lee, and they curdled, and, in a way, they went septic, like Julia’s wound would have if she’d lived longer.

  Now the only way to kill that infection was to kill every human being that had caused it.

  Sometimes, Lee thought he was stuck in one of those nightmares he could never remember. Sometimes he felt trapped by his decisions.

  But he was in too deep to go back now.

  Now, the only way out was through.

  Lee took a sidelong glance at his partner.

  Abe chewed on a stalk of grass.

  He seemed pensive.

  “You see something wrong?” Lee mumbled.

  Abe shook his head. “Just thinking.”

  Lee said nothing. Waited.

  “It was weird, how we met. You remember that?”

  “At selection?”

  “Well, yeah. But more specifically…the beach that night.”

  Lee nodded. “Yeah. I remember. What was weird about it?”

  “That we’re sitting here. Together. Over a decade later.”

  Lee raised his eyebrow, searching for a bit of humor, but Abe’s gaze was outward, his face serious.

  “We both must have left the dorms at about the same time. What was it? Midnight?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You must have just left a minute or two ahead of me. And you ran out there on the beach. You picked
the same direction I did. And you must have ran as far as you could go.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I ran as far as I could go. And when I stopped, you were standing there.” Abe squinted at Lee with a slight smile on his face. “And you were never able to beat me in the run. So that must’ve been as far as you could go, too.”

  Lee chuffed with a faint smile. Abe was right. All through selection, he and Abe were head to head on the runs. But Lee could never quite catch Abe. Abe was always a second or two faster, or had a little bit left in the tank on the final mile.

  “Isn’t that weird?” Abe said again. “Of all the places to be on that night, we wind up standing right next to each other. We both wind up running all-out to clear our heads, and we both gas out, right at the same spot on old Coronado Beach.” He shook his head. “It’s weird, man.”

  “And now here we are,” Lee said.

  “Yeah. Here we are.”

  His father’s voice, like an echo: You’d run until you couldn’t run anymore. And we never did find out where you were trying to get to. Hell, I don’t think you ever reached it.

  Abe shook himself out of his reverie. He spat a bit of the grass stalk out, then nodded in the direction of La Casa. “Anyways. What’s on the menu?”

  Lee readjusted his cheek weld to take the strain off of his neck. Flicked a drop of sweat quivering on his eyebrows. “Well. You’ll be pleased to learn that those two tankers are still there.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lee noticed that Abe did seem to perk up.

  “You think they’re still full?” Abe pondered.

  “They’ve only been there for a day, so probably.” Lee sucked his teeth, and let a note of exasperation tinge his voice. “We could always just light them on fire and see how long they burn.”

  Abe made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “Lee. You’re my brother. I have your back. I’m not gonna say shit about you getting your pound of flesh. But I’d like for you to shut the fuck up about me trying to send some tankers back to the UES.”

  “They’re a distraction,” Lee replied, his voice flat.

  “To you.”

  “You want to get them back for Julia just as much as I do.”