The Alpha Chronicles (34 page)

Rearranging his body, a shoulder pushed by thrusting legs dislodged the debris
, and he was free. Mitchell stood for two full minutes drinking the cool air, filling and refilling lungs that seemed unable to get enough.

He burned his hand slightly when he reached for a handhold to climb out. Some of the surrounding bits of charred timber still smoldered red beneath their carbon black surface. The second handhold was cool to the touch
, and then he was standing in the middle of the ruins.

Walking out of the destroyed stru
cture required caution as well - hotspots, collapsed walls, and still smoldering roof joists creating an obstacle course. When his boots hit dirt, he felt like shouting out in celebration, but held the release. Scanning right and left without seeing any movement, the ex-Sergeant hustled off into the Texas night.

Lou didn’t recognize Mitchell at first. When the ex-
soldier stepped from behind the wall, his appearance startled the security boss.

The arrangement had been that someone would drive to the rendezvous point every other night for a week. As soon as the spies had done their work, they would sneak out of town and be picked up a few miles outside of Alpha.

Mitchell’s face was thick with smeared ash, soot and dirt, the affect making him look like he had risen from the dead, or at best had found employment as a chimney sweep. Lou’s memory of a neat, well-kept individual didn’t match with the disheveled, vagabond looking man approaching his truck. Torn, filthy clothing almost as dark as the man’s complexion indicated that the mission to Alpha hadn’t gone as planned.

When Mitchell opened the passenger door, a nauseating wave of odor filled the cab, the offending reek a combination of smoke, body odor
, and other foul ingredients Lou could not identify. “Water,” was the first scratchy word out of his mouth.

Lou reached and tossed Mitchell a plastic bottle of water and then watched as it was drained in only a few gulps. “More?”

“There’s a case in the bed of the truck, help yourself.”

After watching Mitchell consume two whole bottles, Lou asked, “What about the other two?”

“They didn’t make it. Alpha’s security forces are more aggressive than anyone anticipated.”

“Did you find out where the juice is coming from?”

Nodding while he sipped another bottle, Mitchell said, “Yes. Their electricity is generated by a windmill farm dozens of miles south of town in the desert. I talked with an old dude who claimed to have worked for the power company before he retired. He was bragging about some dangerous adventure to Fort Stockdale to reroute the electrical power back to Alpha. He went on and on about a gunfight and narrow escape. I think most of it was bullshit, but that’s what he said.”

Lou rubbed his chin, “Windmills
, eh? Now that makes sense. I’m not sure how Mr. Lewis will react to that news, but it answers a whole ton of questions. Any information about the gold?”

Shaking his head, Mitchell replied, “No. That’s what I was angling for when we were discovered.”

“Let’s get going. You need to ride back with the window down, pal.”

Nick tested the floor with his boot, unsure if the charred wood could support his weight. Stepping gingerly into the Berber home, he began cautiously poking around the ruins. Tony and a few others had joined the
big man; Nick wanted to verify three bodies had been cremated in the fire, the others having a morbid curiosity to return to the scene of the crime.

“I’ve got one back here,” announced Tony, his grim expression indicating he had found a body.

Nick stepped over and around debris until he was at his man’s side. Looking down at the grisly remains, Nick noticed the barrel of a weapon lying beside what was left of the body. Reaching down, he tapped the barrel to test its temperature and then pulled what had been an AR15 from the ashes.

The plastic components of the weapon were disfigured, the stock transformed into thin, sticky strings of black goo. The rounds in the magazine had cooked off, mangling the thin steel case almost beyond recognition. Unsure if there was even a single salvageable part
left, Nick went to toss the junk to the yard when something unusual caught his eye.

Right beneath the magazine release was an oddly shaped bulge. Having held a weapon similar to this for most of his adult life, Nick had never seen any modification, aftermarket
part, or feature that would account for the disfiguration.

Nick removed his glove and tried to wipe the black carbon off the rifle. A mouth full of spit and more rubbing eventually resulted in the mystery being solved. Someone had attached an inventory tag to the weapon, which was atypical of most government organization
s and even private security firms.

Rubbing more grime from the small steel label, Nick shifted and held the weapon in the air to catch better light. “Property of Lewis Brothers Oil, Midland Station, Texas,” he mumbled as he deciphered the tag. Lowering the rifle, Nick glanced at Tony and asked, “Ever heard of them?”

“Yeah, they’re a big outfit over that way. Why would an oil company have its own inventory of rifles?”

Nick pondered the question for a moment before answering. “More importantly, why would guys with company rifles be shooting at us?”

Before Tony could reply, one of the other men called. “Nick, you better come back here.”

Stepping around more rub
ble, Nick found two of the searchers staring at a root cellar, the trapdoor wide open. It occurred to him instantly that someone had ridden out the fire down in the hole. “Fuck! That is the oldest trick in the damned book,” was the big man’s response. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

Tony stepped over and glanced at the hole. “Only one of them got away. I found the other body over there. His weapon had the same inventory label.”

Nick scanned the desert surrounding the burned out residence, hoping to detect the survivor scampering away or hiding nearby. Realizing it was a waste of time, he looked at his men and said, “I’m out of this pop stand – let’s head back to town.”          

Fort Stockdale, Texas

February 14,
2016

The man limping along the sidewalk looked like hundreds of others the guards had seen since the collapse. Stooped shoulders, an uneven gait, filthy clothes, and an unshaven face were all indicators of a man down on his luck – a guy who had been wandering around aimlessly for a long time.

The pull-along suitcase being towed by the hobo appeared to have seen better days as well. The dusty, black canvas shell sported patches here and there, lengths of duck-tape securing the torn exterior. The zipper was clearly broken, random lengths of cloth sticking out of
a partial opening along one side. A ragged looking strand of rope secured a wad of newspaper and additional rags to the handle.  

One of the enforcers elbowed his partner, nodding in the direction of the vagabond. “Another bag person – it’s been a while since we’ve seen any new arrivals.”

“I’ll go make sure he finds his way to the camps. They can deal with him down there.”

“Hurry, the DA will be coming out in a little bit. You know she gets upset when we have homeless people wandering around.”

“No problem,” and with that, the former deputy ambled toward the new arrival.

Nick saw the guard approaching out of the corner of his eye. He started singing an off-key verse of
“Onward, Christian Soldiers,” as the man came within earshot.

The enforcer stopped cold when he detected Nick’s body odor. Deciding to keep his distance, he said, “Hey – you can’t hang around here
, buddy. We’ve got a special place for people like you. You need to turn around and head down to the river.”

Nick ignored the fellow, singing his song and shuffling along.

“Are you deaf?” the man challenged.

I can hear you just fine
, thought Nick.
Just keep following me a few more steps until your friends can’t see us.

The enforcer had never
been completely ignored before and wasn’t sure how to react. His first instinct was to call over one of the other guys for help, but the teasing he’d receive wasn’t worth it. This bum was tall, but looked old and worn down. Deciding instead to get in front of the man, he trotted a few steps and then stood directly in Nick’s path.

Nick sidestepped the guy, hardly missing a beat of his scuffing gait.

“Fuck,” muttered the enforcer. Pausing for a moment, he became angry, caught up to Nick, and grabbed his shoulder. “Hey I’m talking to....”

Nick reached across his body, grabbing the wrist
on his shoulder and pulling hard. The attack caught the guard completely by surprise, his off-balance body surging forward. Before he could regain his equilibrium, Nick was behind him. The last place on earth any man wanted to be was in front of an ex-Green Beret with his back turned. In one fluid motion, Nick’s left boot kicked out, the blow landing squarely in the back of the enforcer’s knee. As the leg collapsed, Nick’s left arm circled the unfortunate fellow’s neck, a ring of steel-hard muscle applying enormous pressure to the helpless man’s throat. Turning slightly to the side while tightening the hold, Nick braced his victim’s weight on his hip and lifted.

Kicking didn’t do any good - twisting didn’t help. There was no air in his lungs to yell, not that the crushing pressure on his windpipe would have allowed such an act. Less than two minutes passed before the man in Nick’s arms choked out, the limp body lifted effortlessly over the hobo’s shoulder and carried quickly behind a nearby building.
Checking the guard’s pulse, Nick found he pulled the hold just in time – the guy was breathing, but wouldn’t swallow anything but liquids for a few days.

Two hundred meters away, Deke watched the activity through a pair of binoculars. Grunting, he said “One down.”

“He was too slow applying the hold,” commented one of the other operators, also watching through his optic.

“I’ll let you take that up with him when we get back,” chided Deke.

The second sentry looked up to see the same bum shuffling down the sidewalk, this time going the opposite direction. Glancing around for his buddy, the guard shook his head wondering where his friend had wandered to.
Maybe this dude smells so bad he had to puke
, he thought.

Trotting across the street, the second approach played out much like the first. After Nick ignored the guard’s verbal challenge, the anxious sentry stepped in front of Nick and shoved his rifle barrel into the hobo’s chest.

Allowing a potential threat to be within reaching distance of your weapon is never a good idea. Doing so when the rifle is attached to your body by a sling is an additional error. Poking a potential adversary in the chest with a slung weapon that clearly has its safety engaged can be fatal.

With the AR15’s flash suppresser against his sternum, Nick did the exact opposite of what his foe expected. He stepped forward, shoving the weapon and its owner backwards. As fast as a striking snake, Nick’s right hand slapped the barrel away from his torso while the sentry was still off-balance. Stepping nose-close to the shocked fellow, Nick grabbed the sling with both hands and pulled forward at the same time as he reared back and then slammed his forehead into the opponent’s nose. The sound of crunching cartilage was audible for several feet.