War Dogs Trilogy: Wounded Warriors of the Apocalypse

by AJ Newman

  Both ladies felt much better about joining our group, but they were put off when Dad told them that we would go on and find my brother before returning to take them to the farm. We gave them most of our food, two pistols, and helped them settle in the large home before leaving the next day. We were sorry the ladies were upset but reminded them they were not tied up and being passed around to pleasure a bunch of thugs. The loud one told me she didn’t think they would ever see us again.

  I said, “If we’re alive and if you’re here, we’ll pick you up in two to three weeks to take you home with us. I promise.”

  ☆

  Chapter 18

  Northeast of Nashville on Highway 24.

  The next week dragged on as we slowly traveled from Nashville heading northwest following Highway 24. We not only had to watch for danger from people but also had to look out for signs from Michael and his family. We ran into several gangs and thugs along the way and chose to hide from them whenever possible. This was difficult since we needed to travel in broad daylight. MMax stayed busy pointing out ambushes and people in our path. He saved our butts numerous times, and I wouldn’t be alive now if not for him. I love that dog.

  I’m ashamed to say that it was hard to focus on security, Michael’s signs, and missing Kat. Yes, I missed her. She was the biggest pain in my ass in my entire life, but I missed her. I missed the smell of her hair as it touched my cheek when we rode double. Yep, I hesitate to say it, but I missed her skinny body against mine on horseback and in bed. Maybe we were meant for each other. Well, that was Good Jason speaking. Bad Jason thought about her every night, but we won’t discuss those thoughts.

  Crap, I was thinking about Kat when I accidentally glanced to my right, and a glint of something shiny caught my eye. The beer cans were stuck in a cottonwood tree about ten feet up, which was just high enough for them to be too much trouble to remove. I pointed to them. “Dad, look! Those could be Michael’s handiwork!”

  Dad rode up to them and looked at the cans. He pulled one from the tree. “Jason, this one has a note rolled up around the tree limb.”

  He untied the note and then unrolled it. He read it aloud. “Dad or Jason, I knew you would come to find us. Head southeast on Highway 24 as far as it is from our farm to the Jenkin’s place. Take a left and go as far as it is from our barn to the dirt road west of the barn. We’ll be waiting. My foot is injured, and we had to hole up for a while. Everyone is alive and getting thinner.”

  Dad dismounted and said, “Jason, watch our backs while I make a map from Michaels instructions.”

  It was summer now, and hot as hell in Tennessee and Kentucky. The concrete shimmered from the heat, and the flies were biting, so I figured a storm was heading our way. The flies weren’t as bad as those little black SOB mosquitoes. “Dad, can you hurry up? These little black bastards are eating my hands and neck up.”

  Dad ignored me and kept doodling on his notebook. I noticed he swatted at something on his neck twice and then his horse took out down the road. He didn’t say anything and just left me swatting those little boogers. I kicked my horse and took off behind him, hoping the breeze would blow the mosquitoes away. I kinda sorta knew where Dad was heading and was surprised when he blew by the overpass where we should have left the highway. I caught up to him and said, “We’re going past the turnoff to make sure no one is following us, right?”

  “Yep,” was all he said.

  I scouted the area to my left as we rode by but didn’t see anything noticeable. The woods were thick, and an army could be hiding in them without being seen. We rode down the entrance ramp on the east side of the highway and hid in a copse of trees. MMax was breathing heavy with his tongue hanging out. I dismounted and gave him some water. This heat was especially bad on the horses and MMax. Dad and I cursed the heat, flies, and mosquitoes but knew we had it made compared to the animals. Most of the time, MMax chose to walk rather than ride across the saddle, due to comfort issues. I needed to figure that one out before taking MMax on any long rides.

  Time passed slowly as we watched for anyone trying to follow us. I also noted that only a few people passed us on the highway. They were mainly families heading to some other place where they thought they could find safety or more food. Well, that’s what Dad and I thought. I saw one group that tugged at my heartstrings. A man and woman walked along with two kids about ten and eleven years old. The man pushed a wheelbarrow, and everyone had a backpack to carry their food and possessions.

  One of the boys pulled away from his mom, ran up to his dad, and pulled on his hand. The boy said something and the man yelled loud enough that we could hear him a hundred feet away. The man yelled again and slapped the boy, who ran back to his mom. I raised my rifle and placed the man in the middle of my sights. Just before I was going to squeeze the trigger, my dad pushed the barrel up in the air. I gave him a dirty look.

  “Son, unless you plan on taking in a woman and two more kids don’t shoot the only man taking care of them and feeding them. The kids are clean, they’re not too scrawny, and they could be much worse off without this man in their lives.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I just can’t stand anyone who abuses kids or women.”

  Dad chuckled as they walked out of sight down the hillside. “Son, I tried my best to set a good example of what a father should and shouldn’t do for you kids. Apparently, I had a bit of success with you. If the world weren’t so screwed up, I would have taken the shot and taken them to a shelter for abused women and children. Son, we can’t help everyone, and we certainly can’t take in all of the stray dogs.”

  “I know you’re right, but it sticks in my craw that people like that man breath the same air as his kids. They will become abusive toward women and children when they grow up.”

  No one else came by for another hour, so we mounted our trusty steeds and rode north until Dad thought we were close enough to walk to my brother’s hiding spot. The woods were thick with saplings and brush but not so thick that we had to cut our way through. We walked a couple hundred yards when MMax froze, pointing northeast of our position. We froze and could hear sounds in the distance that were unintelligible. We snuck up closer with MMax leading the way and almost walked into a clearing. We dropped to the ground.

  The clearing was the size of a couple of baseball fields and had a small log cabin, outhouse, and old barn on the west end. There was a large garden by the house and a fenced in area with several cows, several mules, and some goats. There was a chicken coop beside the fenced in area. Two kids were hoeing the garden, and an old man was sharpening an ax on an old timey foot powered grinding stone. I saw one thing that piqued my interest the most. There was a cast iron old water pump at the back of the house by the kitchen door. I could fill all our water jugs with sweet well water.

  Dad took his binoculars from their case and surveyed the area. He got excited. “That’s your brother’s kids, Jerry., and Sally! I don’t know who the old … Hey, Pat just walked out of the barn. Darn, I don’t see Michael. Let’s walk up carefully. Raise your gun in the air along, with your other hand.”

  “Dad, let me go in while you cover me in a safe position.”

  “That’s a great idea, son. You stay back and cover me.”

  I took up a position behind a tree and made sure Dad wouldn’t cross my field of fire. I placed my sights on the man and was as ready as I could be. MMax sat beside me, sniffing the air. I rubbed his ears as Dad walked into the clearing.

  No one saw Dad at first, then Jerry dropped his hoe and ran to the old man who raised a double barrel shotgun. The old man yelled, “Hold on there, Mac! Stop, or I’ll fill yer britches with buckshot!”

  Dad was over a hundred feet away and called out, “I’m Zack Walker and the kids’ grandfather. I’m looking for my son Michael.”

  I saw Pat running toward Dad but couldn’t hear what she yelled. Dad lowered his rifle to the ground and caught her when she collided with him. Pat wasn’t a small woman, so both of them fell over to
the ground. Then, both kids ran over and piled in on top of my dad. The old man lowered his shotgun, so I walked out of the woods with MMax leading the way. The old man saw me and raised his shotgun again. I raised my rifle over my head and slowly walked to him.

  “I’m Jason Walker. Pat is my sister-in-law. Where’s my brother?”

  The old man said, “I’m Cletus McHenry, and you need to discuss her husband with her.”

  I was a bit confused, or dense as Kat always said. “Is Michael here or not?”

  The old man pointed at Pat. “See Pat.”

  MMax growled, and I turned in time to tell MMax to stay just before my niece, Sally, and nephew, Jerry, bowled me over. All I heard was them screaming, “Uncle Jason! Did you bring us back something from the war?”

  When they calmed down, I replied, “Yes, I brought you MMax and me. My plane crashed, and I lost everything else I owned.”

  I heard Dad growl. Yes, growl. Then he said, “Those sons a bitches will pay for this.”

  I instantly assumed that my brother had been killed by some thug or the other. “Dad, where’s Michael? Why isn’t he here?”

  Dad was teary eyed and choked up, so Pat came over. She hugged me and said, “Michael’s gone.”

  “What? Who killed him? I’m going to make them pay.”

  Pat hugged me tightly. “Calm down, Jason. We don’t know if Michael’s dead or alive. He sacrificed himself to allow us to escape from those FEMA thugs. He led them on a chase through the woods about two miles from here, and we saw them catch him. They probably have him working as a slave in a camp up in Kentucky or south Alabama.”

  I was getting madder by the second. “Which way did they take him? Dad, we have to go get Michael.”

  With tears still running down his cheeks, Dad said, “Son, they took him a month ago. He could be anywhere by now. Let’s take Pat and the kids home and regroup.”

  “But, Dad!”

  “Son, calm down and think things through. I know you could tear through the country and kill every FEMA agent in sight, until they send an army to kill you and probably the rest of us. We need a surgical strike that frees your brother and limits our exposure. Let’s go home and make a plan to find out where the FEMA camps are located and then get intelligence on them.”

  I knew my dad was right, but I was still mad and wanted to kill something. That’s what Army sergeants do. Officers think things through, plan, and, scheme before reacting. My dad was right about one thing. I had to calm down and think before I reacted in this screwed up world. In the Middle East and Europe, we’d always know who the enemy was and killed them all. If we accidentally killed an innocent person, God would handle sorting them out.

  Leaving didn’t go as smoothly as Dad and I had hoped. Pat wanted to stay at the old man’s place, but the kids wanted to go home with us. Pat made the case that they were safe and had plenty of food. Even Cletus told her she was foolish to stay. He said, “Pat, there is plenty of food, but someday either FEMA or some starving bunch will find us. You will be safer with Zack and Jason. You and I can’t fight anyone off.”

  Pat was in tears. “I know you’re right. Will you come with us?”

  “Girl, I was born in that cabin eighty-two years ago. My mom, dad, and three children are buried behind the barn along with my Sarah. We were married sixty-three years ago, and I ain’t leaving her now. FEMA won’t want me, and I can hide from anyone else until God calls me to join Sarah. You take the kids and go to Zack’s home. Take plenty of food with you. You can take the wagon. Betsy and Jake will pull it to your new home. I’m getting too damned old to fool with those mules.”

  Pat asked, “Are you sure you won’t come with us?”

  He shook his head and said, “We’ll load the wagon up this evening, and y'all can leave when Zack thinks it’s safe.”

  Later, my dad pulled me away from loading the wagon. “Son, do you think we can make it home without a hundred people trying to take that wagon load of food away from us?”

  I laughed, and Dad stopped me. “Jason, what’s so funny.”

  “Dad, I read a post-apocalyptic book several years ago, and this older couple wanted to be able to drive their big lumbering truck full of supplies right through an area filled with starving people and gangbangers. They placed hazardous cargo signs all over the vehicle and wore hazardous chemical suits. No one stopped them. Let’s see if Cletus has any red paint and white sheets.”

  Cletus had heard my plan and said, “I have changed my mind on the wagon and mules. Follow me to my garage.”

  He walked us around the barn to an old cinder block building and opened the sliding door. I was amazed. The building looked like a wreck on the outside but was neat and orderly on the inside. The walls had been painted white, and the floors were light gray, but that wasn’t the big surprise. There was an old Ford sedan on one side of the garage and an old Dodge Power Wagon ambulance beside it.

  I said, “That’s an old Dodge Power Wagon.”

  Cletus said, “Kinda sorta. It’s actually a 1958 Dodge M42 Ambulance. I purchased it from an Army-Navy store forty years ago. It runs on diesel and can go anywhere. I installed an extra fifty-gallon fuel tank, so we could drive it up to Alaska and back. We never made the trip, but I drove it for many years. I restored it ten years ago and only drive it in parades and sometimes on Sunday. Please, paint your hazmat signs on it and go safely home.”

  The ambulance had been painted back to its original OD green with the white circles with the red crosses in the middle. It would be easy for anyone not familiar with the current Army and FEMA vehicles to assume it was an official vehicle carrying hazardous material.

  Dad said, “I hate to take a vehicle that means so much to you, but it could save all our lives. Do you have any fuel for it?”

  “Yes, the tanks are full, and I have four five-gallon fuel cans to take with you. The old beast doesn’t get outstanding fuel mileage, but you will have enough fuel to drive about seven-hundred miles without needing to find fuel. That extra fifty-gallon tank gives you about four hundred extra miles.”

  We spent the next day cutting a sheet of plywood into some squares for our hazardous signs. We painted the boards yellow and then added the word Caution at the top and the biohazard symbol in the middle of the remaining space. We placed one of those signs on the front and back of the vehicle. I had a brainstorm and made larger signs for the sides of the ambulance that had the word ‘Caution’ at the top, the biohazard symbol in the middle, and the words ‘Human Remains’ at the bottom.

  I found a set of white vinyl stick on letters in Cletus’s garage and stuck the words ‘World Health Organization’ on the top of the ambulance above the windshield. We stood back and looked at our work. Dad said, “Darn, if I wouldn’t run the other way if I ran into this vehicle. Now we need to make it a bit more comfortable for our passengers and work on making some kind of official-looking uniforms.”

  Cletus slapped his side in joy. “I’ve got exactly what you need. I’ll be back in a minute. Pat, bring the kids and follow me.”

  Dad and I removed all but two of the stretchers and most of the antique medical gear. We placed the items in a neat pile at the back of the garage. I looked around the inside and said, “This is just a tin box. It will be hotter than Hell if we don’t insulate the walls and roof.”

  “I saw some three-quarter-inch foam insulation sheets in the barn. Cletus has about eight four-by-eight sheets of the stuff. Four would make a big difference,” Dad said.

  Cletus and the others came back loaded down with uniforms, old gas masks, and DC electric fans. He said, “These white medical uniforms will pass for hazmat suits, and the gasmasks will seal the deal. Wear these WWII tanker helmets and most people will swear you are hazardous material workers or space aliens. I’ll wire the fans into the ambulance and cut some vent holes, so the passengers won’t fry in the back.”

  Dad mentioned the insulation, and Cletus told us to take as much as we needed. We glued the insulation
to the walls and back doors but had to bolt the sheets to the roof. The finished product looked rough until Cletus brought us some OD Green rattle cans to paint the insulation. He said, “Don’t get it too wet, or the paint will melt the foam.”

  Six hours later, we were sure we had thought of everything to aid our trip when Cletus came out of his office with some paperwork. “These documents are your orders. All military and FEMA people have orders. I typed them up on my antique Underwood typewriter and made them look as authentic as I could. You know the military and other organizations don’t have computers so they will have to resort to old technology. This should fool anyone but the highest level authorities.”

  I said, “Thanks so much for taking care of our family and helping us get back home safely. You need to come with us. You would be a great help to us with all your experience and ability.”

  Cletus smiled. “Thanks but no thanks. I’m going to stay with Sarah and get buried on my property.”

  Cletus would be dead before he ever saw the ambulance again. I went back to check on him the following year and found a friendly family had squatted on his property. They didn’t know what had happened to the owner. I walked to the graveyard and smiled. Next to Sarah’s grave was a new one with a marker that read, “Cletus Mc Henry, a good man.”