Midnight Skills

by William Allen

  So, the stealing began. Under the cloak of darkness, at first. A few of the more remote homes, just outside the city limits, had a few chickens. A goat or two. That simply infuriated the hungry, who only saw this as an intentional insult after seeing some of their own perish along the way from a lack of food. So, they came in the night, taking what they wanted, and if one or two of the homeowners wanted to squawk, then that made them fair game as well. Shortly after that, the fighting in town began in earnest.

  Mayor David saw it all. Except, he wasn’t mayor then. Just a city cop who’d remained on the job because he didn’t have a family to worry about. In the end, he was the most senior of the small town’s police force still left alive when the killing finally wound down.

  Jasper claimed a population slightly over seventy-five hundred before the lights went out and was the county seat of Jasper County. By this point in December, the unofficial census placed the number at closer to five hundred. No one, not even Davis, knew how many of the refugees died in those first few months, but their bodies were added to the pyres, along with the corpses of too many of the officer’s friends and neighbors. Soon after the piles of bones cooled, work started on the barricades, and no new people were allowed inside the makeshift walls. If you wanted passage through town, though, that was negotiable.

  All we have to do is survive the winter and eke out enough food to get us to next summer, Davis thought, as he regarded the meager supplies stored in the back room. His momentary optimism died when he looked at what their community had to work with, and he silently calculated how many mouths they had to feed.

  He wondered if they would have enough fuel left to burn the bodies of the dead once winter ended. Or if there would be anyone left alive to light the fire.

  CHAPTER 17

  Ben and Skeeter kept up their scouting all the way to the outskirts of Kountze, and other than a few weeds trembling in the ditches, a sign of hastily assumed hiding spots, the pair sighted nothing of note as they scanned the empty fields and burned-out houses. They saw nothing, but both men tensed when their senses cried out a warning of danger. Something was in the air, like a stink of rot that hovered at the edge of their perception.

  Skeeter grabbed the CB microphone when they reached an intersection and paused at the stop sign. The highway was at an angle to the connecting farm to market road, and Ben was already turning the truck, poised to deviate from their route. He was scanning the surrounding terrain, taking in the structures nearest the road and risking the use of his binoculars to study the shattered glass of an abandoned gas station next to the intersection and a looted farm store across the highway, maybe one hundred yards further west from the stopped truck.

  “This is One. Situation is Bingo. We are taking Route Charlie, over.”

  Luke, still sitting in the passenger seat of Truck Two, heard the broadcast and sprang into action. The truck lacked a real gun tub, since the whole thing was a jerry-rigged piece of backwoods engineering. Luke was beginning to wish they’d brought the Humvee, or even one of the Suburbans. The truck’s overhead hatch could be dropped down, however, tugged over the lip of the gap with the pull of a pair of metal pins, and the two-foot steel plate would lock into place to cover the back of his legs when he stood up in the modified seat.

  “Bingo means they got a bad feeling,” Rudy added unnecessarily while he helped Luke hoist the M249 up through the opening in the roof. Luke unfolded the bipod and settled the weapon into place, then he attached his rough harness to the D-ring mounted next to the hatch.

  Thumbing the switch to his headset, Luke called Scott and apprised him of the situation. The ranch group had access to mobile radios taken from the downed DHS troops, but the range remained spotty past a mile or so. Thus, the lead truck used the Citizens Band radios with their longer reach. Scott didn’t have a CB in his armored cubicle in the bed of the truck, and Luke wanted him ready. When combat vets like Ben and Skeeter developed a bad feeling, Luke was willing to give credence to their intuition.

  “Trouble coming, Scott. Get ready with the grenades.”

  “Roger that,” came the rapid response. Luke hoped the precautions would be unnecessary, but he too, sensed something. A disturbance in the Force, as his father might have jokingly said. Luke thought about his father in the last truck of the convoy and said a prayer. Not for himself, but that his father would remain safe. Too much in their little community hinged on Sam Messner remaining on the board, and again, Luke wished his mother had been successful in convincing his father to remain behind.

  The lead truck, still a half mile in front of the halted convoy, pulled out onto the farm road and headed back east. That would take them away from their intended target but might also hopefully throw off an ambush. Or, in this case, trigger one.

  The hail of gunfire started without warning, cutting into the side of the lead truck like a buzzsaw, and immediately defeating the makeshift armor like tissue. Luke was mesmerized by the destruction raining down on their friends, but Rudy reacted immediately. He shifted the truck into gear and hit the accelerator, yelling over the harsh growl of the engine.

  “The fire is coming from behind that farm store across the street!”

  Luke reacted to this call, hunkering down behind the light machine gun and sighting in on the store, but he still lacked a target. He could hear Rudy, either talking into the CB or the headset, but Luke remained focused on scanning the scene in front of him. The scout truck was now on fire, or at least, flames began to appear from under the shredded hood.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Luke whispered, when he realized the enemy must be using a fifty-caliber machine gun to generate that kind of damage so quickly. His little machine gun fired the same 5.56mm rounds as their M4s and the variants, so he was going to be outclassed in the upcoming fight. And given the way Rudy was driving hell-bent for leather, there was going to be a fight.

  “This is Truck Two. I’m engaging as soon as I get the range,” Luke announced over the headset. “Truck One is down and on fire. Recommend the rest of the convoy pull back.”

  “No!” came the immediate response, a cry over the radio, and Luke knew it was his father.

  “They’ve got vehicles, and at least two have a Ma Deuce,” Rudy interrupted, his voice calling over the radio. “Sam, we’ve got to buy you time to get those trucks turned around. And you know it.”

  A long silence crept by, and Luke was surprised when he heard his father’s voice once again.

  “Affirmative. Bring them back in one piece, Rudy.”

  Then there was no more time for talking as Rudy guided their truck around behind the burning remnants of Truck One, and Luke opened up with the M249, raking his fire in short arcs, back and forth across the space behind the store. Then Luke saw what was waiting, and he felt his stomach drop.

  The MRAPs, six wheeled vehicles commonly referred to as Cougars, boasted extra-thick armor and a remotely operated machine gun mounted on a turret. Luke’s bullets might scuff the paint, but that was about it.

  “Scott, I need some help here!” Luke called out over the radio. “I count three Cougars and three five ton trucks. Focus on the MRAPs. Rudy, keep us moving, please. Over.”

  “Copy,” Scott replied, and as the truck turned, taking a zigzag approach to the crossroads, Scott popped open the truck’s bed cover and sat up with his M4 raised. The rifle butt barely touched his shoulder before the young man triggered off his first 40mm grenade from the M203, aimed at the nearest of the off-blue-colored vehicles. Luke knew the grenade wouldn’t hit, the range being too great, but he hoped it at least served as a distraction while he loaded a new ammunition box into the smoking machine gun. Shorter bursts, he chanted to himself as he cycled the bolt.

  Luke barely noticed the sharp explosion of the miss as he focused on walking his short bursts across the windshield of the first five-ton truck. This was little better than pissing in the wind, but the rest of the convoy required the seconds they were buying for the trucks to be tu
rned around. Trying to slug it out with these armored MRAPs would only get them all killed, since the convoy had a total of one weapon, the lone AT-4 carried by his father in the last truck, capable of taking out one of these armored behemoths.

  Luke watched with some satisfaction when his rounds impacted the hood and driver’s side windshield of the first five-ton, and even with the steel shutters welded over the front of the truck, he thought at least a few had penetrated the narrow slit. Luke slewed the machine gun slightly and triggered another burst. Then he felt the entire truck shudder when heavy bullets smashed through the steel and the previously crazy steering ceased as the wheels straightened out.

  “Yes!” Scott crowed as he launched another grenade, and this one flew true, impacting the front glacis of the MRAP suddenly bearing down on them as it pulled around the side of the ruined store. As Scott dropped back behind the reinforced steel walls of this truck bed, he heard the whip crack of hornets zip by inches from his head.

  Luke saw the explosion and stared in disbelief as the MRAP shuddered once under the impact, turned away for a moment, and then slowed while the turret rotated ominously. Drawing a bead on Truck Two now, that the evasive jinking disappeared.

  Luke risked a glance down, and his darkest fears were confirmed. Rudy, hands still gripping the wheel, looked like a can of tomato sauce exploded in his lap. Except Luke knew it wasn’t, and the driver was clearly dead. Rudy’s foot was still bearing down on the accelerator though, and when Luke risked a moment to glance through the shattered windshield, he saw disaster approaching at seventy miles per hour. Luke had no idea what the burned-out shell of squat, one-story building used to be, but Truck Two was approaching the thing at ramming speed.

  “Scott, brace yourself,” Luke managed to bark out as he detached his safety clip and dropped through the hole in the roof, reaching desperately for the steering wheel. Not going to make it, he realized, and then the world fell on top of him in an instant of horrendous pressure, before fading to black.

  CHAPTER 18

  How much did I drink last night? Luke wondered groggily, letting the inane thought roll around in his battered skull for a few minutes, struggling to figure out why he was sitting at such an awkward angle, and why his brain felt like it was threatening to break loose in rebellion from the rest of his body. Then the fog began to gradually clear, and he decided he’d rather have been right about the drinking. He’d only had a few sips of alcohol over the last few years, but he figured drinking would have killed fewer brain cells that whatever had actually happened.

  He started pulling the pieces together. The mission to Kingwood. The ambush outside Kountze. Having the truck veer out of control and hit the front of a building. Rudy’s dead eyes staring at him as he lost consciousness.

  That last bit made Luke jerk as the memory seemed to loop in his mind. They’d been trying to hold the ambushers off when fire came from another source, and the old man absorbed half a dozen large caliber rounds. His mind’s eye focused on the way Rudy’s body must have jerked and spasmed as the life seemed to gush out in mere seconds, spraying the inside of the cab. Luke remembered struggling to fit a new box into the light machine gun, then looking down to catch a glimpse of Rudy’s shattered remains. Then, trying to reach the steering wheel, but too late. All he remembered after was darkness.

  Alive, he decided, and a prisoner. That was his assumption, based on his inability to move his arms, as well as the crooked condition of his battered body, leaning in a partially reclined position against something hard and vaguely round. A pole. Luke’s addled mind supplied this last bit as he shifted slightly, trying to relieve the ache in his back.

  Well, hell.

  Keeping his head down, Luke decided not to telegraph his return to consciousness. No reason to give up any advantage, no matter how slight. Daring to crack one of his eyes open for a quick peek, he felt a moment of terror when he realized he couldn’t see anything. All blackness. Was he blinded in the wreck? He’d been wearing clear goggles at the time, he remembered, but had something happened after he was knocked out?

  Then he noted the faint smudge of light from the corner of his left eye, and realized no, he wasn’t blind. He had no idea of how much time might have passed, but plainly, night had crept up on him while he was unaware. The light he sensed came from a small campfire, burning about thirty feet from where he sat, restrained.

  Slitting his eyes while slowly, gradually moving his head, trying to ignore the hot, wet agony that suddenly surged, Luke bit back a groan and turned his attention to the scene in front of the fire. Luke made out blurry shapes which rapidly came into focus as four men, all standing in a rough circle around the fire pit. He could only see the faces of two men, both unknown to him, but not the dirty uniforms they wore. The blue patterned camouflage told Luke immediately the identity of his captors. Only Homeland operatives wore that uniform.

  The four were deep in some muffled conversation that Luke could not decipher, but he already knew the words meant him no good. Luke wondered if the attack had been aimed at their group in particular, or if they had simply rolled into a trap targeted for someone else, but he decided it didn’t matter. He had to get away and do it now.

  He would retreat for the moment, gather up some weapons, then bring his vengeance down on these men who’d snuffed out Rudy Meecham, as well as Ben and Skeeter. The idea made his blood sing, a reminder of the berserker who lived inside his skin, and then he remembered the third member of Number Two truck’s complement. Despair crashed down on Luke, and he felt the air leave his body.

  Scott Thompson. His friend. More like a brother, given the shared experiences and the bonds of loyalty that’d joined the two young men. What happened to Scott, Luke wondered angrily. Had he died in the wreck, or did the heartless Homeland thugs dispatch him as he lay dazed in the truck bed? Casting about, Luke experienced a surge of hopefulness that shattered just as quickly when he realized no other prisoners were bound nearby.

  Luke did see the outlines of multiple vehicles, including a pair of what he could only conclude were some of the same MRAPs that’d killed the first two trucks in their convoy. These were six-wheeled Cougars, if he was correct. The U.S. Marines used this type of vehicle in Iraq, and he remembered seeing a picture of his father and some of his men posing in front of one very similar. The distinctive profile, including the remote operated CROWS II system mounted up top, made Luke clench his jaw painfully. Yep, that would tear up a couple of farm trucks for sure, no matter what hillbilly armor they’d welded in place. He remembered seeing one take a direct hit from one of Scott’s grenades and shrug off the impact.

  Hold it together, Luke reminded himself. He flexed his now numb hands behind his back, feeling the vague tug of nylon zip ties, and he realized this was a lucky break. He didn’t know how to defeat metal handcuffs without a pick or a key, but there’d been a YouTube video he’d seen once that showed how to get out of these things. Just have to keep flexing, Luke thought, and hope his captors continued to talk amongst themselves, rather than get to the torture part of this evening’s festivities.

  Stretching and twisting his arms and wrists without telegraphing the motion with his shoulders proved to be a non-trivial challenge, and a previously undiscovered injury to his chest, whether a gunshot or as a result of the wreck, made his movements burn with liquid agony, but Luke carried on as best he could. He knew what he could expect when these assholes got down to asking their questions, so he needed to be elsewhere. Using the pole of a street sign as an anchor was a good idea by the bad guys, because the four-inch diameter pipe kept Luke from shifting the restraints to the front, where they would be easier to deal with.

  Just as Luke thought he was making some headway, he felt something brush his still-numb fingers and he froze, his heart suddenly leaping into his throat. What was that? An animal? One of his captors? Luke’s brain whirled, but he couldn’t figure out what had touched his hands. Then he heard the voice, a bare wisp of wind next to his
ear.

  “We’re here. I cut your cuffs. Get ready to move back on signal.”

  Luke’s hands began to spasm as the truth sank in, and he had to fight a tremble. The familiar voice in his ear belonged to his father, and he knew the rest of the men had to be near. He sensed more than felt the shape of the pistol grip being forced into his open palm, but Luke knew he could never effectively use the weapon for many minutes still.

  “Knife,” Luke muttered back, his words slurred, but he dared not move his head. “Fingers are numb. Leave pistol on the ground. You lead, I’ll follow.”

  “Aye aye,” came his father’s reply. “Ten minutes or less.”

  His father took the still nearly useless fingers of Luke’s right hand and curled them around the hilt of a knife Luke had never used, but the solid weight and heft reminded Luke suddenly of the long-discarded butcher knife he’d carried out of Chicago. Luke began to flex his fingers, hands and wrists up to the elbow, as he prepared himself for action. Likewise, the young man began to run through a series of isometric exercises through his calves, hamstrings, and quadriceps, trying to loosen himself up for the retreat he had planned.

  Yep, that was the plan. Wait for the signal, which Luke intuited to be sniper fire, and fade into the darkness. With his father and the remnants of their team on site, he wasn’t going to have to throw his life away in an effort to go down fighting. That had been his Plan B originally, if he couldn’t shake the restraints. Luke knew the score. He had no illusions about his ability to withstand torture. When these guys started asking for information, Luke was certain they wouldn’t be using something as pedestrian as waterboarding. Nope, his go-to-hell plan was to fight and maybe kill a few of them, hopefully enough to avenge his own dead, before going down for the final count.