Midnight Skills

by William Allen

  Luke sighed and sank back on his butt, prepared to wait as long as necessary for the ride he was promised. Not that he was lazy but staying out of sight meant his father’s ruse remained in play as needed. Plus, his head really hurt and the Advil he’d taken earlier just wasn’t going to cut it. So he sat still and tried not to think very hard. That would do for the moment.

  CHAPTER 21

  Lieutenant Gilbert looked old for his rank, Luke thought as the delayed introductions took place in the shadow of the Cougar parked by the shattered front door of the truck stop. He was stocky and built like a fire plug, and his hands were disproportionately large on a guy who barely cleared five-nine. Luke shook it, noticing the thirty-something Naval Reserve officer had a firm but not overpowering grip. A good sign, Luke thought.

  “Good to meet you, Lieutenant,” Luke said, keeping his voice level and trying not to show his exhaustion. The events of the day before, the nearly sleepless night, and this morning’s excitement had him ready for a nap. He’d then waited for another half hour before Luke’s father, as promised, drove over to retrieve him. Sam Messner gave Luke the shorthand report on the ride back to the truck stop, now surrounded by a wall of armored vehicles bristling with weapons, but all aimed outside the circle.

  “Please, call me Scott,” the man replied, taking a moment to take in Luke’s bedraggled condition. He knew he was a sight, with his blood-stained clothes, the wrap on his left wrist and the bandage stuck to the wound on the back of his head.

  “I know too many Scotts already,” Luke replied, giving the officer a tight grin. “Mind if I stick with LT?”

  “Ah, yeah, your friend with the broken leg. Sure, LT is fine. I started off enlisted, though, so I might not immediately respond. Sometimes hard to remember the whole ‘officer and a gentleman’ thing right off.”

  “Cool. Sorry for the reception earlier, but well…”

  Lt. Gilbert nodded before answering.

  “I get it. Trust me. You guys just got hit, hard, and here comes another line of trucks rolling down the road. Just glad your father was able to raise us on the radio. Things are bad enough without getting any blue-on-blue action going on. I’m pleased and honestly surprised your father saw fit to just turn over the rest of these supplies to us.”

  “We need everything we can carry,” Luke replied simply, “but we can’t carry these. You guys check out as allies, so why shouldn’t we share? Building goodwill and all. A win-win all the way around.”

  That much had proven fairly easy to check out, since these newcomers not only had the proper countersigns to the codes Major Warren passed along, but they also confirmed contact with General McMillan at Fort Polk. The six Humvees and twenty men belonged to a composite outfit made up of a hodge-podge of surviving regulars, as well as National Guard, Army, and Navy Reserve personnel. They’d secured the Port of Beaumont for their base of operations, but remained a bit cagy about their total numbers or makeup of the group. Luke was fine with that for the moment.

  Luke nodded to his father as he approached, carrying three Styrofoam cups balanced in his two hands, and Lt. Gilbert smiled when he saw the older man’s cargo.

  “Coffee, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Gunny, I’ll take one off your hands.”

  “Sorry, sir, but the choices are black and black,” Sam Messner deadpanned. “And, I believe, black.”

  “Black it is, then,” Gilbert chimed back. “As I was just about to explain to your son, we got word there was a friendly formation headed in our general direction but didn’t expect to meet like this.”

  “Agreed. I’m pretty sure they were laying for you guys, though.”

  Lt. Gilbert seemed to be turning that idea over in his head while he sipped the coffee. Finally, he spoke.

  “No offense, Gunny, but what makes you think that? We knew you were coming, after all.”

  “No offense, but you didn’t,” Sam explained in his best break-it-down-into-small-words mode for the officer. “I’m sure Major Warren put out the word that we were going to be out and about, but literally nobody, not even the Major, knew our route. Or our destination.”

  “Well, I can find out real quick,” Luke piped up, finishing his coffee with a disgusted scowl. Instant, but he needed the caffeine, though. “Let me just go question our prisoner.”

  “You got a prisoner?” Lt. Gilbert asked, his dark eyes burning with curiosity.

  “Yeah,” Luke mumbled, swaying a bit when he turned a tad too quickly. His father, reacting almost as fast, grabbed him by his shirt sleeve to provide support. Luke continued speaking as if he hadn’t noticed missing the step. “After the bastards captured me, I got loose with help from my dad. Turned the tables on the two asshats they sent to drag me off for interrogation and I grabbed their torturer-in-chief. He’s the only one still alive out of this group.”

  With a look of astonishment, Lt. Gilbert stopped dead in his tracks. “After they captured you? What do you mean? I thought you were injured in the battle outside Kountze yesterday?”

  “I was. They killed my driver and Scott, our other gunner, barely got away. I was trapped inside the cab. Of course, I don’t remember anything after we ran into that store going, I don’t know, fifty miles per hour?” He said the last bit with a glance over at his father.

  “Probably closer to sixty. I thought you were dead, to be honest. That’s why I blew up that first Cougar. We were already going to get away, but I was pissed,” Sam Messner growled. Then he looked over at the Navy officer, a man near to his own age, and continued, “Luke is my oldest. He’ll be seventeen years old in a few days. I just got him back, and he keeps getting into shootouts and ambushes.”

  The lieutenant looked away, his thoughts on his own children. Younger, but still living in this new world. Then, what the retired Marine said finally struck home and he stopped.

  “Wait, you said seventeen in a few days? Jeez, when I was that age, the biggest worries on my mind were how to get away with getting into my Dad’s liquor cabinet, and if Jenny Sandusky would let me get to second base.”

  “Well, times have changed,” Luke said with a hard voice, then he looked over at his father as they neared the back of the One-Two truck. “Wait, we need to do this right. Pop, please ask Mike to get my toolbox out of the Pete. I’d go get it, but I don’t think I can manage one-handed. I’ve got some stuff in there that will work.”

  Turning to Lieutenant Gilbert, he continued his explanation. “This guy acted like he was the big boss and he was planning on breaking me with his toys, so I need to return the favor. I’ve got a power drill, some chrome pliers, and some other stuff in my toolbox that will have our prisoner talking in no time.”

  Lt. Gilbert looked at the teenager standing next to him, actually towering over him by nearly six inches, and used a finger to carefully push up the black horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  “You can’t torture him, you know,” the officer stated mildly. “I mean, in addition to being officially banned, it also doesn’t work.”

  “No, Lieutenant. I’m sorry, but you are wrong on both counts,” Sam Messner said softly. “You might not be allowed to torture, but I’m a private citizen. Well, a private military contractor, but what the hell? I can, and will, get what this guy knows. Also, I’ve heard all the opinions about torture. I agree there is some validity to the idea that torture doesn’t work on some people, or they use it to pass on bad intel.”

  Luke took a moment to lean against the side of the truck, and he rested his aching head on the rough metal plate used to house one of the side storage containers on the vehicle while he listened to his father speak.

  “However,” he continued, realizing he was lecturing, “this is not a war about ideology or religion. The subject in that truck is a piece of garbage, who only has concerns for his own survival and well-being. Once he understands that the only way he will continue to survive is to answer my questions, then he will.”

  “So, you’re willing to
kill him, if he doesn’t tell you what you want to know? And what about you, Luke? Are you willing to stand there and let your father torture this man?”

  Luke glanced over at the earnest-seeming officer and offered a feral growl as his father walked away.

  “I’m willing to cut off his arms and legs and carry him around like a fucking piñata if he doesn’t tell me what I want to know, Lieutenant,” Luke replied, his voice cold but still sociable. He leaned forward then, absently rubbing at his eyes to right the headache still pounding in his head. “Don’t let my age fool you. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect myself and my people, and if that means I have to climb into the back of this MRAP and torture that miserable piece of shit, then I’m down with that. Hell, he already thinks I’m the Devil anyway. My father won’t need to lay a finger on him.”

  “Uh, okay. Mind if I sit in?” Lt. Gilbert asked politely, suddenly realizing he was standing next to a very dangerous individual, kid or not.

  “Sure,” Luke replied, his voice getting back to normal. “You might want to put on a rain slicker or a poncho first. Could get real bloody in that small of a space, you know.”

  “Of course,” Lt. Gilbert’s voice had a touch of strain in it at this point, and then he cleared his throat before continuing.

  “I just don’t like the idea of using young men and women, teenagers, in our fight. I especially have concerns about you coercing information out of this prisoner. About how it may cause you problems down the road, son.”

  “My father expressed the same concerns to me several times. You should really take the time to talk to him more later, because you both seem to have a lot in common. However, your concerns are noted and appreciated, but I can do this. I’ve learned not to be squeamish. I don’t like it, but there’s lots of things I’ve had to do in the last seven months I didn’t particularly like doing. Heck, I think I broke the guy from the moment I captured him, but I’ll find out soon enough.”

  Nodding but clearly not happy, Lt. Gilbert decided to stop antagonizing his new friends. Luke didn’t seem troubled by the conversation, though, and he continued waiting in the shadow of the MRAP until his father returned with a large Craftsman toolbox in hand.

  “That’s why your father sent you out like he did. At first, when I heard him tell the story, I figured it was because he wanted his son out of the potential line of fire, if we turned out to be bad guys.”

  “I’m sure that was part of it,” Luke responded, not sure what the man was trying to say. “He has gotten protective. And he is right. I’ve been involved in the fighting pretty much constantly since the pulse. Now, I was injured, couldn’t even operate a rifle with this wrist, but I could do something to help. But in the back of his mind, he was probably thinking if you guys did attack and wipe everybody else out, then I’d make it my life’s work to kill all of you in terrible ways.”

  “I see,” Lt. Gilbert said with a musing tone before continuing, his voice more serious. “Somehow, I think you just might have tried.”

  “Lt. Gilbert, Scott, I have to tell you, it wouldn’t have been the first time.”

  Gilbert, no fool, took a step back when he caught the serious look in the young man’s eyes. No threat, but the sailor sensed death in Luke’s eyes as the sixteen-year-old continued.

  “Local Sheriff back home claims I’ve killed more men than cancer since the lights went out, and he only knows about the ones after I got back a few months ago. Trust me, LT, you don’t ever want to betray me or mine. Not ever. Play straight with us, and I’ll be your best friend. But harm someone I care about, and you best eat a bullet before I get my hands on you.”

  With that, Luke gave the officer a polite nod, like they’d been discussing the weather, and wandered off to find his father. He was anxious to get this chore done, so they could get back on the task that’d drawn them out in the first place. This damn mini-refinery better work after all this suffering and loss.

  CHAPTER 22

  After a brief consultation with David and his father, Luke decided the best approach would be to use the back room of the truck stop, instead of the confined space of the MRAP. Easier to clean up afterwards, David insisted. Lt. Gilbert, still a little shaken by his conversation with the teenaged psychopath, just nodded along.

  Mr. Matthew Morgan might have been based in Houston, but his accent revealed his origins growing up in the wilds of Massachusetts.

  “Hey, professor, you ready to rock?”

  The ten-foot-by-ten-foot windowless room, lit only by kerosene lanterns, hosted only a single folding chair and an improvised table made from two barrels set up with a sheet of plywood laid over the tops. The subject, strapped to the metal chair with duct tape, writhed against his restraints as he looked up to see Luke striding in with the toolbox, lightened up to the bare essentials, clenched in his left hand. He was dressed back in his full battle rattle and he carried the unsheathed Ka-Bar knife in his right hand.

  “My name is not Schultz, and I am not a professor,” the bound man objected, his voice strained, and not just from the effort he was expending trying to extract his arms and legs.

  “Oh, I know that,” Luke responded cheerfully while he fought to keep the strain off his face as he hoisted the toolbox up to sit on the table. “You just remind me of that feller, that’s all. He talked funny too, you know.”

  That bit of nonsense from Luke set the tone. He was playing a character here, a very scary individual who might, say, cover himself with the blood of his victims and hack them to pieces with a Ka-Bar knife.

  “What do you think you are doing? You have no idea the amount of trouble this is going to bring down on you. Do you know who I am?”

  Luke paused to regard the man in the funny safari suit. His pockets were turned out and every piece of lint bagged, but since they were going to have to strip him for transport anyway, removing the clothes to eliminate any beacons or tags, Luke decided to up the ante.

  “Uh, you are a dead man I get to play with? Is that the right answer? They said I could do whatever I wanted, after all,” Luke replied, just letting his voice go a little squirrelly at the end. He lowered the blade and let the tip touch the collar of the man’s thick jacket. “All I need to know is your name, and how your men knew to set up where they did. You can tell me that, right?”

  The man’s eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets as he watched the razor-edged blade slowly slide through the synthetic material of the tan jacket, like a snake slithering through tall grass. He feared the boy was crazy, and this just confirmed his terror-ridden assumption.

  “Sure, sure. My name is Morgan. Matthew Morgan.”

  “And who is Matthew Morgan?” Luke hissed, his tone rising, and he paused for a second before continuing. “Who are you, Matthew Morgan? Tell me, Mr. Morgan. Tell me now.”

  As Luke spoke, he allowed his voice to assume a sing-song quality that sent chills up the seated man’s spine as the words came out in a near chant.

  “I, uh, I work for the Department of Homeland Security. I am the supervisor for the Houston office, and I have friends. Powerful friends, kid. You should just let me go now, before this goes too far.”

  Morgan’s voice was quaking as he spit out the last few words, but Luke seemed to take no notice as he finished slicing away the sleeves of the neat jacket, turning it into a vest now. He let the spine of the knife brush against Morgan’s throat, just a friendly little caress that made the agent shiver.

  “I have friends, too,” Luke confided. “Less, now, after your men killed some of them. Of course, now all your men are dead too, Matthew. All dead, and we are going to crucify their bodies out on the road. Doesn’t that sound like fun? I once helped crucify a whole camp one time,” Luke confided, then he dropped his voice as he continued.

  “That was more fun, though, because they were still alive. You want to still be alive when we pound the nails into your arms? You really shouldn’t do the hands, like they say in the Bible, because
that doesn’t hold for shit. What do you say, Matthew? I really want to hold the spikes when they hammer them into your legs.” Leaning close, Luke whispered his lies like sweet endearments. “I probably should have you gagged first, though. Otherwise, the screaming drowns out the sound of the bones as they split. I swear, you’ve never heard anything like it.”

  Suddenly, the events of the day grew too much for Matthew Morgan, and he began to choke, and then vomit as bitter bile began to foam up from his stomach. Luke, fearing his prisoner had taken some kind of suicide pill, some secret agent, poisoned tooth bullshit, set the knife down out of reach and moved behind Morgan, delivering a series of sharp blows to his back that tipped the chair forward. The sour stink of stomach acid filled the room, but gradually the sounds of hacking and gagging tapered off.

  “Damn, Matthew, I don’t think you are very good at this,” Luke goaded, his tone one of mock consideration. “How many times have you done the torturing, anyway? How many times have you attached the electrodes to someone’s scrotum and turned up the juice? I hope you are shaved down there, by the way. When I turn up the dial, the pubic hair typically catches fire and man, you want to talk about making a stink.”

  While Luke spoke, Morgan continued trying to tear at his bonds, and his coughing started again as his desperation grew.

  “I never did! I never did! I just wanted to get out in the field and see what it was like! I never touched anybody, I swear!”

  Luke took a step back, cradling his chin in his good hand as he seemed to be thinking about what Morgan said. Desk jockey? In charge of the Houston office? Jeez, what office? Shoot, he had more questions, but he’d told his dad and that lieutenant he would find out what they needed to know now. Plus, his head was really starting to hurt again, and he wanted to go lay down.

  “Well, Matthew, if you are new to all this, I guess I need to give you the grand tour. Two questions: First, how did your men know to set up at that location, and second, are you left-handed or right-handed?”