Rick Carter's First Big Adventure (Pete's Barbecue Book 1) (25 page)

      Pete laughed an open deep laugh.  “I show you someting, bra.  My barbecue it take more den some zekes to get rid of it.  Don’t you hear ‘bout how Pete’s barbecue can cure illnesses, wake up de sleepin’ and put a smile on de dead man’s face?” He motioned for Rick to follow.

   “What about the end of the world Pete?  Can it cure that?  What’s the plan?”  Rick reminded him.

     Pete stopped.  “Well, you gonna scrounge us up sometin’ outta dis refrigerator while I get some clothes on and den we gonna get in de truck and go find out what happened to Dennis, how come he never port us out or show up, maybe shoot some spiders along de way.  Good for you?”    He asked.

     Rick put his hand down and grabbed the Ak-47 propped against the picnic table. “I like it.  Simple, direct, to the point.  But,” Rick looked out at the old beat up truck. It had survived the first wave of madness completely untouched, “in your truck?”

       “What you mean?  What wrong wid my truck?”  Pete seemed affronted.

      “Well, I don’t know, Pete.”  Rick shrugged as he stood up.  “How about something a little more sturdy like a tank, or a Crown Vic?”

      Pete had a wide grin on his face.  “Come on.  Let’s get goin’.”

      Pete finally reemerged in his opened doorway.  He paused there long enough to button up tropical shirt, but he had obviously done nothing to straighten the tangled mop of salt and pepper hair on his head. He had sandals on his feet, old shorts over his boxers and a strangely contented expression on his face, as if all of the universe were moving in exactly the right way.  Rick had barely had enough time to scrounge through the refrigerator to find some nice pieces of steak that were fresh and cooked to perfection.  He had these in an unharmed metal bowl when Pete returned with his new man persona written all over his face.  Pete looked at him with an AR-15 over his shoulder that he had recovered from his house along with a unique looking large gun held in his left hand.  He hefted the massive weapon and held it out toward Rick.

      “Here, maybe you can use dis, make you feel better.  Make you feel like a man.”  He said sly.

        Rick could see now that he was holding a .50 caliber Barrett sniper rifle by the barrel.  The old man was stronger than he looked.  Rick, his AK-47 strapped over his shoulder and still holding the bowl of steak pieces, gratefully accepted it.  “You know we could’ve used this earlier.”  He tried to talk through a full mouth of barbecue.

      “Let’s go, bra.” Pete said, and he started out around the remains of his diner, around the concrete slab it sat on and the mangled pieces of wood and insulation and broken tiles, toward his truck out front.  In the distance, there were lots of sounds and echoes of sounds coming from the hillsides.  The shrill of an alarm sounded, and faint trails of smoke could be seen rising above the tree lines.  Pete stopped long enough to point it out to Rick.  “See tings is already started.”  He said, pointing his AR at the pandemonium that was miles away.   He thought he could see wisps of black smoke ascending up in the sky.

     They both headed toward the old truck sitting faithfully in the otherwise empty parking lot, except for a large amount of debris scattered around and parts of the diner’s roof lying over the truck bed.    They halted long enough to remove the debris and to pull out the spider corps before they prepared to make the long ride back to the Honey Pot.  Pete was about to get in when he noticed a car coming toward them at high speed.  It was trailing dust from the dirt road. 

     The gray sedan sped around the corner, not slowing, and came peeling into the small parking lot amid the pieces of Pete’s diner.  It slid to a stop mere inches from Pete’s truck.  Rick noticed that the brand new car was marred with an array of strange mishaps.  There was yellow goo all over the hood and the top, large gouges in the paint on the sides, an area where the paint looked melted off and to top it off a large spider-leg stuck in the broken grill where steam was pouring out.  Clearly the roads coming that way were not free of dangers.  But it wasn’t the sight of havoc and hardship that got Pete’s attention.  His eyes were focused solely on the sedan’s occupants and in a very unpleasant way.   In the driver’s seat was a heavy set man in a tailored grey suit with thinning hair and beside him, exiting the car first, was a thinner man, with the same kind of suit, red hair and a light complexion with a funny red hue that came from too much stress and a whole lot of anger.   The thin man slammed the car door shut and quickly walked around to where Pete was standing by the truck’s driver’s side.  Mr. Tabert closed the gap quickly, determined and filled with anger that was barely contained before Mr. Ball had enough time to get out of the car. 

     “Pete Reyes,” He started as he came face to face with the old Chamorro, “I want an explanation this instant!  Do you have any idea what’s going on back up this road?!”  He almost yelled.

      Pete didn’t flinch, nor did he hesitate.  “Look around, you blind or stupid?  I tink we might know.”

      Mr. Tabert squared his shoulders.  “Where’s Roger, Pete?  We know you had something to do with his disappearance.  And why is Carter here?”  He pointed over to where Rick was standing uncomfortable but amused at the same time.

      “We don’t have time for dis, Tabert.”  Pete fired back.  “We got work to do.  You in de way.”

        Mr.  Ball came up with his partner and realized that, as usual when these two mixed, things had escalated quickly out of control.  “Pete, Pete, just calm down.  We’ve got bigger problems right now.”  He put his hand out on his partner’s shoulder to calm him down.   “Do you know where Mel is?”

      “No, I don’t.”  Pete quickly lied.  “But, I bet he tryin’ to fix dis mess, what you tink?”

      “See!”  Tabert shot back. “It’s that kind of attitude that got you drummed out of the ranks.  If you had been a little more of a team player and a little less concerned about your trainees, you might have been somebody.”

    Pete all but growled.  “I got one ting to say to you, Tabert.  Backup ‘fore I back you up.”  Rick started to move forward, instinct compelling him to support his new comrade against this obvious threat.  He never really liked Tabert.

       Mr.  Ball moved between the two of them. “Okay, this isn’t helping.”  He looked at his partner.  Mr. Tabert took the non-verbal rebuff in stride, but he turned away just the same.  Mr. Ball returned his attention to Pete.  “Is Roger with Mel, Pete?”

      Pete looked over his shoulder at the smoldering figure of Mr. Tabert, who was busy trying to light a cigarette.  Mr. Ball reached out and motioned Pete away from the truck, a little further away from the lighted match of instigation that was Tabert and a little further from being heard.  “Is he?”  He asked quietly.

   Pete leaned in slightly.  “Yeah, he wid him.  Dey got Tormodis, too.  Dey going to find de Tracker.”

    “Roger couldn’t tell you where the tear’s coming from?”  Mr. Ball looked concerned. 

    “No, he don’t know.”  Pete looked around at Rick who couldn’t hear the private council taking place.  “Dat wat we get de Tracker for.  You got some boys ready to field yet?”

     Mr.  Ball thought for a moment.  “We’ve got a couple teams inbound, but they have to prep first.  You know how it is.  I hadn’t counted on Tormodis showing up, but I’m glad he did.  By the way, you’re welcome.”

      Pete looked confused. “For what, bra?”

      “For turning off that blasted alarm system at the asylum.  It wasn’t easy getting in and out of there without leaving a trace.”  Mr. Ball smiled.

     “I kinda figured dat was you.  Didn’t help much tho.  We still got dis problem wid nowhere to go.”  Pete confessed.

     “It might have helped more than you think.”  Mr. Ball reached inside his coat pocket and clandestinely handed over a small object with a leather strap to Pete.  “Here give this to the Rook, make sure he knows how to use it.  I didn’t realize we were going to have him in play so quick.  I wish we could have prepared him better.” 

     Pete grasped the REAL-Pro 9000 tightly in his broad hand.  “It look like he ‘bout to get on the job training.”

    Mr. Ball raised his eyebrows in agreement.  “Yeah, about that.  Be careful will you?  Tabert’s about this close to an aneurism anyway.  We don’t want any more attention than we already have.”

   Pete nodded as the two seemed to conclude their private talk.  Mr. Ball threw in a loud rebuke to make it sound like the conversation was more than it seemed.  “Remember that Pete!”  He said with force, and he turned away from the old retired agent in a quick huff.  As he made quickly for the car again, Mr. Tabert nodded in approval and returned silently to the passenger’s side.  Mr. Ball leaned forward just before getting into the car and directed his last comment to Rick.  “I’ll be seeing you shortly, Rick,”  He said menacingly.  Then they reversed and sped off back in the direction they came. 

      Pete looked at Rick and shrugged.  “Don’t worry, bra.”  He tossed him the REAL-Pro.  “I tell you how to use it on de way.  Just strap it on.  We don’t know wat comin down dat road next.”

      The sounds of gunfire echoing in the hills around them intensified as if to prove his point for him.  Doomsday had arrived, again.

CHAPTER NINE

                                    Dennis Gets Ready

     Dennis Hernandez tossed lightly under his silk sheets, slowly opening his eyes to the rays of the new morning sun.  Mornings on Guam were a peaceful time.  It was time for him do some reflecting, take a few deep breaths and enjoy a cup of herbal tea.  He usually woke up early to experience his time of solitude with ample minutes remaining before he had to be at the office.  Dennis was a very punctual man, a slave to the clock.  He couldn’t blame this trait on his time spent in the U.S. Navy.  He had spent a lifetime running his days by the ticks of the minute hand long before he joined the Navy.  It was just the natural thing for him to do.  It was, therefore, fortunate that he usually slept alone.

     He yawned and stretched, allowing the blood and energy to flow back into his small frame while simultaneously spying the digital alarm clock by his bed.  Once again he prided himself on waking at exactly fifteen minutes before the alarm was set to go off.  He had done the same thing for the past 32 years.  The clock was his friend, not an enemy.

       He pushed himself out of bed, in his Egyptian cotton tailored pajamas and set his feet on the half plush gray carpet of his bedroom floor.  He liked to sit there for a minute or two each morning moving his toes back and forth through the fibers of the soft carpet while he adjusted himself to being vertical again before slipping his pedicure feet into his house shoes that were sitting perfectly side by side awaiting the arrival of his neatly maintained feet.  Normally that was the sign that it was time to make his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on for his tea, which would give him time to go to the bathroom, have a quick, light shower, before exiting in his designer robe to find the kettle whistling and ready to pour.  He used the steeping time to get dressed and prepare his hair and teeth.  However, this morning, as he slipped his right foot into its comfortable home in the house shoe, an unsettling noise caught his attention.  It was coming from outside, from his neighbor’s yard.   He leaned over, still seated, and looked out the window of his bedroom.  His neighbor was not that far distant, a retired policeman who liked to drink a little too much on weekends but otherwise was friendly and helpful.  Parting the curtains he saw, in his neighbor’s yard a giant reddish brown spider, about the size of a Saint Bernard dog, attacking the retired cop and biting off his head.  Dennis observed this with a profound sense of regard that was totally void of any emotion.  He uttered a barely audible. “Huh” before getting up and making his way to the kitchen to turn the stove on under the brass tea-kettle.        

    Dennis was a man who was deeply invested with a natural sense of emotional control.  He was not callous, nor did he ignore the emotional needs of others.  He just simply possessed very little need to express his emotions and, as such, could appear to those who knew him more like a machine than a man.  He liked rigid adherence to schedule and routine.  He felt a man’s life should be ordered and structured.  These traits made his time in the Navy very productive and his superiors very happy with his performance.  He joined the service from San Diego California, where he grew up, and where he was impressed with the highly respected and well-trained special-forces he saw there at Coronado.   It was no surprise to his family that he would choose that same path in the Navy, applying for BUDS training when he was first eligible, getting accepted and making it through the brutal course.  Once Dennis set his mind to do something it was as good as done. 

     He completed his bath without incident, briefly distracted by what he thought was the scream of someone at his door, before proceeding to the whistling kettle to pour his custom imported herbal tea.  Allowing the proper steeping time was the key to the art of good tea brewing.  That’s why he had built his morning routine around the minutes necessary to prepare it right.  When he reentered his enormous bathroom with the marbled raised tub, the separate glass shower with eight-way water massager and the marbled vanity with hand carved Italian stone reliefs, he was about to blow dry his hair when the power suddenly cut out to his house.   He stood momentarily in the darkness with the useless white blow dryer in his hand listening to the faint sound of gunfire coming from somewhere not too distant.  He mumbled a “huh” to himself, relieved that he had already heated the water for the tea before the power went out.