The Day After Never - Purgatory Road (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 2) (17 page)

“That’s the rumor,” Lucas said. “Thanks again. Might not see you for a spell.”

“Kind of figured. Probably best to lie low.”

“Got that right,” Lucas said, and then gently tugged Tango’s reins. The big stallion spun and made for the gate, trailed by the women’s mounts.

Duke watched them ride through the gate and shook his head as they disappeared from view. “
Vaya con Dios
,” he muttered, and turned to the building, where Slim was standing in the doorway. “Thought you were hitting the sack again?” Duke asked.

“Have to use the can,” Slim said, and walked to the outhouse, his face unreadable, his heavy steps those of a preoccupied man.

Chapter 26

A day after being found half dead in the dry wash, the Crew boss lay on the steel top of a conference table as a gray-haired man with a neatly trimmed Lincolnic beard and heavy black-rimmed spectacles dug pieces of shrapnel from his wounds.

The man had been working steadily for several hours and occasionally paused to wipe sweat from his brow with a grimy hand towel. The atmosphere in the room was oppressively hot even with the windows open and a fan consuming some of the precious electric power from the rooftop solar array. Other than the low hum of the fan, the only sound was the occasional clank of another piece of metal dropping into an aluminum trash can by the side of the table.

Luis entered and stood with arms folded across his chest, his face somber as he watched. When the man finished with the thigh he’d been working on, he wiped away the blood from Cano’s leg with a rag, this one soaked with moonshine, and then stepped back from the table and took a deep swig from a bottle near the window.

“Steady the nerves,” he said to Luis, whose face could have been carved from granite.

“What do you think?”

“That if he comes out of this coma, he’ll wish he hadn’t.”

Luis’s eyebrows rose. “You think he’ll live?”

“He’s tough as nails, so nothing would surprise me.” The man took another swig. “That’s both legs. I’ll get to the arms next, and then his head. Don’t think I can do anything about his left eye – you can see it’s filled with blood. That’s above my pay grade.”

“Not going to be winning any beauty contests, is he?”

“He can always join the circus.”

The man dropped the pair of bloody forceps he’d been using into a tray filled halfway with alcohol, and made a face. A veterinarian who patched up cartel members when they were wounded, his knowledge of basic surgical procedures was better than anyone’s in the area, but that wasn’t saying much. He’d transitioned from cats and dogs before the collapse to being a human physician, catering to a crowd that wasn’t particular about where it got its care.

“How much longer?” Luis asked.

“At least another couple, three hours. Don’t want to rush it.”

“Can you control the bleeding?”

“You’re welcome to apply pressure wherever you want, but it’s like playing whack-a-mole. He’s clotting okay, though, so I don’t see anything worse than the blood he’s already lost.”

Luis shook his head. “How the hell is he still alive?”

“The short answer is none of his vital organs were damaged, and other than the eye, the wounds on his face and head are flesh wounds. Doesn’t look like anything penetrated all the way through his skull, and his body armor saved his lungs and heart. He probably won’t be in a romantic mood for the next forever, but that’s the least of his concerns.”

“What about after you’re done?”

“I’ll pour another bottle of this fine elixir all over him, salve him with antibacterial ointment, and dose him with fish antibiotics for a week. If he doesn’t die from that, none of his wounds will kill him. All of which is assuming his body can replace the blood loss – his pressure right now is almost nonexistent. I will say he must have the heart of a bull to have gone through this and still be breathing.” The veterinarian grimaced. “Then again, looking at his older scars, this ain’t his first rodeo. Man’s been sliced and diced more than a few times.”

“If you can save him, I’d owe you,” Luis said quietly.

“I expect free drinks for the rest of my life.”

“And you’ll get them.”

The man went back to work as Luis watched, methodically going over every inch of maimed skin, flushing the wounds periodically with either rotgut whiskey or boiled water, humming to himself as the fan blew tepid air through the stifling space. They’d brought Cano to the same hospital where the woman had been imprisoned only three rooms down, and the irony that their former captive had inflicted this damage on a prison-hardened Crew boss wasn’t lost on Luis.

“If you need anything, call me. I’ll be down the hall in the lobby. Too hot in here for both of us,” Luis said.

“Not going to fight you on that one.”

Luis made his way to the hospital foyer and stood at the open glass doors, where two cartel gunmen guarded the entryway. Bullet holes in the walls lining the corridor were a stark reminder of the recent battle fought there, which had cost the cartel more of its dwindling members. Already Luis had begun to hear grumbling from the remaining Locos that the locals seemed less docile – which, if allowed to escalate, would mean the end of the cartel’s stranglehold over the survivors, whom they needed for growing food and doing the work that the cartel was too busy to do for itself.

He’d instructed his men that any act of rebellion or insubordination was to be greeted in the harshest possible manner, and that those suspected of agitating against the cartel were to be hauled into the public square in front of the courthouse headquarters and shot as a lesson to the rest. He had no compunction about carrying out executions, having done so for years as the number two Loco, but he feared the effectiveness might be temporary – when the two hundred or so surviving townspeople figured out that there were only a few dozen Locos and that the Crew gunmen weren’t permanent, it could get ugly once they departed.

Luis’s handheld radio crackled, and one of his men called his name from the tinny speaker. Luis pressed the transmit button and raised the radio to his lips. “What is it? Over.”

“Bitch who sells us grain just back-talked me. Over.”

Luis knew the woman. She was an older widow, hard as flint and short of temper. He also knew that she’d be hard to replace if they executed her. But if he allowed her to get away with dissing one of his men, the act could start a wildfire…

“Drag her to the square and we’ll whip her until she’s bloody,” Luis ordered. The spectacle should serve the same purpose as a killing. The townspeople would see that the cartel was still in charge and would think twice about resisting. But that would only last so long. He needed to recruit more men, and soon.

“You going to come for the fun? Over.”

“Wild horses,” Luis said. “I’ll be there in ten. Don’t do anything until I get there. Over.”

“Roger that.”

Luis returned to the improvised operating room and took a final look at Cano. “I’ve got to get going. Have one of my men call me if he dies or if you need anything.”

Another clank as a piece of shrapnel hit the bottom of the trashcan. The veterinarian didn’t look up. “Will do.”

Luis made for the door, where his horse was tied beside the front façade in the shade, anxious to get to the square before his men arrived with the woman for the flogging. He needed to keep up appearances, and he’d learned from Paco that nothing established pecking order like administering punishment in front of his men.

He reached up to where a bullwhip was coiled by his saddle horn, and his fingers grazed the woven leather.

Time to work up a sweat. If the woman survived, she’d carry the scars till her dying day and would never back-talk a Loco again. If she didn’t, they’d leave her to rot in the square until the carrion birds had cleaned her bones, sending an unmistakable message to anyone who felt like crossing swords with the cartel: do so and perish.

Chapter 27

The trek to Artesia from Duke’s trading post took two grueling days. The first night they camped northeast of Malaga, a ghost town south of Loving that had been abandoned after the collapse. They set up on the bank of the Pecos River, where Lucas and Ruby caught sufficient bass to feed everyone, if not in a particularly appetizing manner. The following morning they were underway just after dawn and gave Loving a wide berth, as though mere proximity to the site of the recent atrocities might contaminate them.

Nobody spoke as they rode past the town’s walls in the distance. Lucas’s mind filled with vivid recollections of the dead; his grandfather’s face flooded his memory, and he blinked the image away, intent on spotting any present threats – there would be time enough down the road to grieve for Hal and the rest, and he couldn’t allow his mind to wander.

The horses’ hooves on the dusty trail drummed a relentless cadence as the sun ascended in the sky, and when they neared Carlsbad, they stuck to tracks that skirted the remnants of the town, preferring to pass unnoticed by the residents so as to leave no trail for the cartel to eventually follow.

The reward that Duke had warned him about would make life harder on them – if they’d broadcast it over the radio, then anyone could be a turncoat. Still, there were limits to the cartel’s reach, and the further they traveled from Pecos, the less weight the group had. His bet was that nobody would give them a second look once they were almost a hundred miles north of the Locos’ stronghold, the offer of a reward an empty one to those who’d never seen one of the cartel members in their lives.

As they neared Artesia, Lucas and Ruby held a hushed discussion, riding side by side.

“He’s expecting us tonight?” Lucas asked.

“No. He probably didn’t expect us to push so hard. I’d guess tomorrow morning.”

Lucas nodded. “Good. Then our arrival will be a surprise.”

Ruby gave him a dark look. “I see this trip hasn’t been good for your trust issues.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“Exactly.”

Ruby had assured him that her discussion with Bruce had been coded so any eavesdroppers wouldn’t know what to make of it, but a coil of anxiety was wound tight in Lucas’s stomach as they neared the man’s spread on the outskirts of Artesia, a medium-sized berg that had been reduced to a fraction of its pre-collapse population. Bruce lived in a single-wide trailer surrounded by barbed wire, just inside of the perimeter fence the militia had erected to protect the town’s border.

Two armed locals barred their way as they approached the entry to the inhabited area and advised the travelers to keep their hands where they could see them as they drew closer to the gates. It was nearly dark, and the men were clearly spooked by a party of three adults and a child materializing from the gloom.

“We’re here for Bruce,” Ruby announced.

“State your purpose,” one of the men called out.

“Got problems with some electronics. We already cleared it with him.”

The man checked a clipboard. “What’s your name?”

“Ruby. He’s expecting us.”

“Says here you aren’t comin’ till tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m here now. We made good time.”

“Who’re they?” the man’s partner asked suspiciously.

“My daughter, and her husband and child.”

“Don’t say nothing about that on here,” the first man said, eyeing the clipboard.

Ruby rolled her eyes. “That’s Bruce for you.” She hesitated. “Come on, guys. A four-year-old and her parents aren’t going to take over the town. Give us a break…”

“I’m five,” Eve protested, and one of the men smiled.

“Mine does that too,” he said.

“Hard for grandma to keep everything straight these days,” Ruby agreed. “Time sure does fly by, don’t it?” she said, adding the folksy country homily as a sweetener. Who would turn away a grandmother and her charges?

“Well, we ain’t supposed to let strangers in, but I suppose since you’re together, and he’s expecting you…” The man stopped when he saw Lucas’s M4 strapped to his back. “Where’d you get that, cowboy?”

“What? The rifle? Traded a month’s worth of moonshine to some crook who runs a trading post south of here,” Lucas said, his tone friendly.

“Yeah? You make juice?”

“Best around. Grow my own corn. Nothin’ like it,” Lucas said, pouring on the
aw shucks
accent he knew well.

“Got any on you?”

Lucas eyed the guard. “I might.”

“Reckon I could taste it? Always in the market for a new supplier.”

Lucas nodded. “In my saddlebag.”

The man smiled. “Go ahead. Won’t shoot you or nothin’.”

“Good to hear.” Lucas dismounted from Tango, removed one of the jars of white lightning, and approached the men. He unscrewed the top and handed it to the first guard. “Just a taste. That’s Bruce’s payment there, so don’t go heavy.”

The first guard took a sip and let out a whoop. “Damn, that’s got some fire to it!”

“Told you.”

“Lemme taste it,” the other guard demanded, and reached for the jar. The first one almost spilled it as he handed it over, and the second man took a small gulp and then exhaled loudly. “Sweet Lord, but that’s clean.”

“Secret’s in the corn,” Lucas said, motioning for them to pass the jar back to him. The second man took a long, rueful look at the moonshine and returned it to Lucas, who screwed the top on tightly and replaced it in his bag.

“Where you say you was from again?” the first guard asked. Lucas resisted his natural inclination to respond that he hadn’t, and let Ruby field that one.

“Got a spread down south of Carlsbad. Out in the middle of nowhere. Just us and six more like him,” she said, pointing at Lucas. “We do okay. Nobody messes with us.”

“You had any trouble here?” Lucas asked.

“Nah, not for a spell. Maybe, I don’t know, six months ago, bunch of highway thugs tried something, but we made short work of them. Been pretty calm, overall. You hear what happened down Loving way?”

“No. What?”

“Whole place burned to the ground,” the second man said.

“Really? Who did that?” Ruby asked. “I traded some with them.”

“Nobody knows. Guy riding north told us about it. Don’t that beat all, huh? Spooked us good here.”