Renegade - 13

by Joe Nobody

  Bishop noted that there were more horses than usual and that some of the old homes and buildings could use a fresh coat of paint. Other than that, Bandera seemed to have survived the collapse relatively unscathed. Neither of the visitors was surprised.

  They found the city park exactly as they had remembered with one, minor exception. Someone had substituted a small herd of billy goats for the maintenance crew’s lawnmowers. Gasoline had been scarce and still was very expensive. Hunter, pointing out his window at the “doats,” thought the wandering animals were fascinating. The timeless river and accompanying cypress trees didn’t seem to have paid the slightest attention to the Armageddon that had destroyed the rest of the world.

  Nor did the locals.

  Steering the pickup along the river’s bank, the couple entered what might be described as a time capsule of recreation. Two boys threw a Frisbee, while a father and son tossed a baseball into worn leather gloves. There were blankets guarded by coolers and lawn chairs strewn throughout the facility.

  Finally, Bishop found a picture-perfect spot, backing the truck just close enough to use the tailgate as a handy tabletop. A box lunch, courtesy of Pete’s Pit, was to be the afternoon’s fare.

  They ate on a blanket, mounted a tickle fight in the grass, soaked in the fresh air, and worked hard to divert Hunter away from the water.

  Bishop produced two fishing poles, courtesy of Ward’s garage. Hunter was soon after his first river perch but lost interest after a few boring minutes without any bites. Mom gnawed chocolate from some secret stash, which proved more inviting than watching an unmoving bobber.

  “Why can’t every day be like this,” Terri sighed, leaning back to let the sun shine on her face. “This is perfect.”

  Bishop had to agree, despite making the rounds at the memorial services that very morning. He inhaled deeply, drinking in the serenity surrounding them. Surely, they needed more of this peace in their hectic lives.

  All too soon, it was time to pack up and return to the real world, the entire family disappointed by how quickly time had flown by. On the drive back to Terri’s motorhome, Bishop inquired, “Where are you going next?”

  “We’re scheduled in several towns around here for the next few days,” she replied with a tone that bled with her disappointment.

  “So, why is that bad?”

  “We need to take the fight right to that son-of-a-bitch’s home turf. We need to get into Dallas … or some of the bigger cities … and kick his sorry ass. The problem is most of the local officials seem scared to death of him, and we’re having trouble making inroads.”

  “I feel for the guy when you do penetrate his fortresses,” Bishop grinned, amused at his wife’s venom.

  “Seriously, Bishop, this is getting out of hand. I knew the daggers would come out during the election, but I had no idea it would be like this.”

  Terri then relayed what Diana had been told by the reporter in Midland Station. “He’s outspending us by a huge margin, and we’re beginning to lose support.”

  “Where is the money coming from?”

  “That’s the giant question mark. Diana is sure that there are a few overly generous contributors in Dallas that are supporting him, but no one knows for sure.”

  “Pete is opening a new place in Big D. You might see if he’ll host some sort of a shindig for Diana?”

  “Really?” she brightened. “Do you think he would?”

  “Can’t hurt to ask,” he responded. “But it needs to come from you. I’m an employee now, and after just burying four men from my department, I’m not in a position to be asking for special favors.”

  By the time the couple arrived back at Terri’s rolling palace, Hunter was sound asleep in his car seat. Somehow, Bishop managed to extract the boy and get him into bed without waking the normally light sleeper.

  “Now it’s just you and me,” Terri announced, sashaying out of the master cabin wearing her sheerest ensemble.

  Stepping toward her, Bishop pulled her close and inhaled deeply of her hair. “You got my vote, lady.”

  Chapter 10

  Mayor Garcia scanned the festivities, the size of the event causing his chest to swell with a combination of pride and relief. For the tiny burg of Moss Ridge, it was a sizable gathering.

  It hadn't been so long ago that he and the town's other survivors had wondered if prominence or prosperity would ever return to their community. Sure, the rise of the Alliance had brought some hope and optimism, but everyone knew that the fledgling government faced monumental issues on its horizon. Massive Texas cities like Houston and Dallas were home to millions of suffering residents, starvation and disease in those faraway places taking more souls in an hour than existed in Garcia’s entire town.

  They had convinced themselves that Moss Ridge was insignificant and so far off the beaten path that they would never garner government support for their recovery. Their settlement simply wasn't substantial enough to bother with. Yet, what choice did they have? Their backyard gardens produced enough fruit and veggies to survive, and that was more than their urban cousins could boast. They would power on.

  As the months passed and things didn't improve, many of the residents began to carry what could only be described as a small-town chip on their shoulders. Sure, there was enough to eat, but just barely. Once a month, an Army doctor or medic would visit the town, tending to the extremely ill. Fewer and fewer vagabonds and raiders wreaked havoc, the occasional deputy sheriff visiting now and then, flying the flag for law and order.

  Yet, there were no schools for the children, no work, and a growing sense that society’s advances were passing them by. It was frustrating to say the least, especially when a rare traveler or trader brought stories of vast improvements occurring in other parts of the Lone Star Nation. Weren't they citizens of Texas, too? Weren't all men created equal? Didn't they deserve to be part of the recovery?

  In fact, Alpha was well aware of the situation in Moss Ridge. Unbeknownst to the village's leaders, one of Nick's SAINT teams had scouted the community early on. Their report, as well as subsequent filings from Sheriff Watts's department, had always been positive.

  Like so many surviving small towns, the word on Moss Ridge had been that the people were self-sufficient, well led, and appeared to be suffering less than many of the surrounding communities. They were organized, relatively secure, and not being subjected to any sort of brutal, inhuman treatment. If it's not broken....

  All of that had changed just two short weeks ago.

  Out of the blue, a convoy of SUVs had rolled down Main Street. The mayor and elders had been summoned, quickly learning that their hometown was suddenly being thrust into the limelight.

  With less than 150 hardy souls, Moss Ridge didn't have any notable features or infrastructure. There weren't any important factories, railroad terminals, or critical facilities like other towns high on Alpha's integration list.

  What the village did have, however, was a single, key element necessary for the new government's grandiose plan.

  With the liberation of the Plantation agricultural complex in central Mexico, the Alliance gained a viable source of a badly-needed produce. The projected quantities of vegetables, fruit, and other yields would require a distribution network of massive proportions.

  Not only was the Alliance going to use the crops to feed its own people, but also to trade with the United States. That translated into a need for a remote, easily secured warehouse through which agricultural products flowed north in exchange for valuable materials heading south.

  The tiny community, it seemed, ranked first in all three of the most important criteria used to select the new site. Location, location, and location.

  The evening's festivities had actually been planned for some time before the Alliance bigwigs had graced Moss Ridge with their presence. Some of the elders wanted to name the gathering in celebration of the town's founding. Others had insisted that the shindig be organized in honor of Texas's Independ
ence Day.

  The good mayor really didn't care about the namesake or theme. He knew that the people needed something to lift their morale well before the Alliance's management team had blessed their streets.

  Now, as he strolled among the tables covered with potluck dishes, homemade ice cream, and some wonderfully tempting blackberry pies, Mayor Garcia smiled and greeted his constitutes with genuine joy. There was finally a true reason for celebration, a legitimate excuse to throw a party.

  The new distribution center was going to create jobs. Lots of jobs. There were warehouses to be constructed, parking lots for the hundreds of semis rolling north and south, and a small army of men hired to load and unload the trucks.

  The small-town official could almost see the new neighborhoods of single family homes springing up. There would be restaurants, clothing stores, laundromats, and a whole host of infrastructure projects.

  The men from Alpha had even brought a down payment, three suitcases full of cash to initiate the construction projects. Garcia had personally stuffed the old city hall safe with the contents.

  Finally, the good people of Moss Ridge would have an opportunity to reap the rewards of their sacrifice and hard work.

  “Mayor! Mayor!” Widow Bradford's shrill voice called.

  Rolling his eyes as he turned, the mayor watched as the town's highest-ranking busybody made her way through the throng.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Bradford. I hope you are enjoying the festivities,” he greeted.

  Raising her voice to make sure she was heard over the nearby quartet, the widow wasted no time in letting him know what was on her mind. “Lindsay Waller just informed me that she has heard president Diana Brown is actually going to visit Moss Ridge. Is there any truth to this rumor? If so, I think it is your civic duty to inform our citizens. Miss Brown is one of the most important and iconic women in the history of the Lone Star State, in my humble opinion. If she truly is going to visit our community, then preparations must be made. We should gather the Daughters of the Alamo, prepare the church choir, and make arrangements for her to be comfortable while she is in town. Why, of course she is welcome to stay in my guest room if there is....”

  Holding up his hands to interrupt her rant, the local politician shook his head and said, “I have no knowledge of Miss Brown, or any other high-ranking Alliance official, planning to visit Moss Ridge, ma’am. If I do receive notice, you’ll be the first to know. Now, if you’ll excuse me….”

  Pivoting quickly to escape the nosey woman, Garcia headed toward the judging stand where his presence would hopefully be needed as soon as the musicians took a break. He was pleased that she didn’t follow.

  Widow Bradford’s words did serve one purpose, he realized. He hadn’t seen his daughter, Alamo or not, in the last five minutes. Happy to replace civic duties with paternal responsibilities for a moment, the father began scanning the crowd, looking for Jasmine’s blonde head of hair.

  He spied her quickly, the nine-year-old perusing a nearby table full of pumpkins. A contest was scheduled for later, the local farmers bringing in the best samples from their gardens and fields to be judged. One of the church ladies had even scavenged a handful of shiny, royal blue ribbons that would soon be pinned on the prizewinners. There were even cash prizes.

  Garcia paused for a second, watching as his only child hefted a sizeable gourd. “God, you look like your mother,” he whispered. “So beautiful. So alive. I wish she could be here to see you grow up.”

  It took considerable effort for the mayor to suppress the grief that began leaking into his core. Jasmine’s mom had fallen years ago, stabbed multiple times for the basket of blackberries she was picking – a contribution intended for the church’s food drive.

  The men of Moss Ridge had hunted down the culprits like dogs, surrounding the murderers and killing the wandering thugs at the edge of town. The bodies had been stacked and burned without ceremony or remorse. Neither husband or daughter had been the same since.

  Garcia started to call out to his daughter but stopped when he sensed the presence of someone behind him.

  Thinking Widow Bradford trying to corner him again, the mayor spun quickly and then froze. It was a man, but he couldn’t make out the face. Between the glow of the bonfire and a hoodie covering the visitor’s head, Garcia recognized instantly that something was amiss.

  “She is lovely,” a strange voice cooed eerily, the shadow nodding toward Jasmine. “Now, watch the pumpkin at the end of the table.”

  Frowning, the mayor spun around and spied a tiny, brilliant red dot shimmering in the night. Without any sound or warning, the pumpkin exploded in a cloud of yellow and white mist.

  While Garcia wasn’t an expert, he knew exactly what he’d just witnessed. Someone had pointed a laser at the now disintegrated fruit and then shot it with a very powerful rifle.

  Before he could challenge the man behind him, the cold voice demanded, “Now … look at your daughter.”

  Garcia’s heart stopped instantly, the cold ice of fear expanding in his gut. The red dot was now on the side of Jasmine’s head as his only child lifted a small pumpkin from the table.

  “Please don’t,” the mayor croaked, starting to turn and address the stranger.

  “Stand still,” the voice commanded. “Don’t move, and no one will get hurt.”

  Somehow, Garcia managed to control himself, wordlessly stiffening as ordered.

  “That was a 168-grain Winchester .308 boat tail hollow point, match grade. The pumpkin was struck by a custom made, subsonic round that generates zero noise. The man holding the rifle is over 300 meters away, with a clear field of fire that covers your entire celebration. He will not miss. He kills on my order, without hesitation or remorse. He and his silenced weapon are more than capable of massacring most of your constituents before anyone even realizes what is going on. Nod if you understand.”

  Garcia hesitated for a second, unable to will his body to respond to the command. Finally, he managed to bob his head.

  “You are going to calmly walk away. You will smile and greet anyone who notices your exit, acting as if everything is absolutely fine. If pressed, you feel the call of nature. You will go directly to city hall. Do you understand so far?” the dark voice quipped.

  Again, the mayor acknowledged the stranger’s words with a nod.

  “There, you’ll be met by my friends. You will open the safe and give them the cash stored inside. You will wait 10 minutes before exiting. No tricks. No funny business. No alarm. If you do not do exactly as I ask, your daughter will be the first of many to die. Am I clear?”

  For the third time, with his eyes fixed on the red dot staining his child’s forehead, Garcia nodded.

  “Good. Do as we ask, and you will be tucking her into bed this evening. Fuck with me, and you will bury what’s left of her at sunrise. Go.”

  Garcia struggled to move his legs, his muscles resisting his mind’s command. Yet, somehow he stifled the terror flooding his chest and began trudging toward Moss Ridge’s small downtown. Each step was agonizing, each footfall pure torture.

  Just as the voice had predicted, two men in masks were waiting in the shadows beside the tiny community’s municipal building.

  Garcia twisted the old safe’s combination with shaking hands, visions of the exploding pumpkin and his daughter’s face causing him to foul the sequence on the first attempt. Finally finishing, he turned the handle and exhaled when the clunk of opening door-bolts filled the room.

  The world went dark.

  A freight train was smashing his head, or at least that was Mayor Garcia’s initial assessment. With a pitiful, unintentional moan, he stirred and instantly regretted the action.

  It all came rushing back to him a moment later, the red dot on Jasmine’s head, the robbery, the crushing blow to his skull.

  Reaching for the back of his throbbing head, the mayor uttered another involuntary groan. The pain was off the scale, but he had to find his daughter.

&n
bsp; Crusty, half-dried blood covered his fingertips after they had gently probed his skull. There was a huge lump back there, no doubt the result of the bandit’s assault. Again, he closed his eyes, his damaged brain wanting nothing more than to lie and wait for the ache to fade.

  Jasmine. The heist. His neighbors in Moss Ridge.

  He vomited at the first attempt to stand, the heaving convulsions shooting new bolts of white agony streaking through his brain. He desperately wanted water. He had to find Jasmine.

  It took him a moment to focus once he’d finally reached his feet, another minute before he realized he was lost.

  He spotted a fence row, complete with waist-high weeds, a gravel path, and a tree line in the distance. He’d been moved from Moss Ridge’s city hall. He had no idea where he was.

  With an unsteady step, he began wandering along the rocky drive, his uneven gait slowed by bouts of spinning, dizzy images that flashed in front of his eyes. Twice, he stopped and took a knee, his tortured body begging his mind to forego this foolishness and lie down. Only the image of Jasmine gave him the strength to expel the urge.