The Dying of the Light (Book 3): Beginning (21 page)

“Show me,” Shaw said, and all four were soon looking at a satellite map of the area. “Hmmm, I see what you mean, Sergeant. Those roads are all county roads, looks like, and this map is twenty years old, as you said.” He looked over at Jennifer. “No chance on getting recent sat-maps, I take it?”

She snorted. “Who do you want me to call, the NRO? Those satellites are barely functional at this point, and who knows how much longer GPS will last. This is all we’ve got.”

Shaw sighed. “Well, that’s it, then. I’d like to say we should play it safe, but there’s just too many unknowns for us to take the long way.” He let go of the rolled map, and it furled back into the sergeant’s waiting hands. “It’s your convoy, Sergeant. You’re in command.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Shaw stepped closer to the young man, so close that their noses almost touched. He pitched his voice low enough that only the two of them could have heard it, his tone dark and fearsome. “To be clear, Sergeant, this is your choice. But if your choice ends with that woman injured or dead, then you and I are going to have a little ‘come to Jesus’ meeting that you will not enjoy. Understood?”

Carson nodded. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

Shaw held the sergeant’s eyes a beat longer, then grunted. “Very well.” He turned to Rachel with a smile. “Okay, then. Anything else you need? Gear, provisions, whatever?”

Rachel smiled and shook her head. “No, sir. We’ve got everything we need. Just need the okay to go, sir.”

“You have a—” Shaw grunted as he caught an elbow in the ribs from his wife. Jennifer jerked her chin in the direction of the tall woman running their way from the personnel lift.

“Good, you’re still here,” Rachel’s mother, Mary, said. “I thought I’d missed you.” She ignored her daughter’s frown and wrapped the younger woman in a hug. “You didn’t think you were going to get out of here without that, did you?”

Shaw and Jennifer both struggled not to laugh, and Carson found a microscopic mote of dust on his uniform to clean off at that moment.

“No, Mom, I suppose not.” Rachel relented and hugged her mother back.

After another few heartbeats, the women separated, and Mary brushed a stray lock of hair over Rachel’s ear. “No unnecessary risks. No heroics. Do the job, then come home.”

Shaw cleared his throat, and they turned his way. He glanced around and noticed that the troops leaving on the mission were hanging around, waiting for the order to leave. They’d said their goodbyes, fueled their vehicles, and loaded their supplies. There was only one thing left to do. He took a nearby folding chair and stood on it, waving the soldiers in closer.

“In times like these, my friend George Maxwell usually had some stirring words for us all. Some obscure poem he’d read, some rousing story from his past… something.” His impromptu audience members smiled or laughed at their fond memories of the former commander. “We’d all leave pumped and ready to take on the world, and all of it for the general. Sadly, I don’t have his skill with words or speeches.” He looked down at his wife and the others nearby. “So I’ll keep it simple and try not to muck it up. You all know how important this convoy is, how many people are depending on you to make it through and save their lives. And not just their lives, but their children’s lives.
Your
children’s lives, for those visiting with little ones back home. I don’t have to tell you what’s at stake. You know what to do and how to do it, and you have the will to see it through.”

The determination on the faces of those who were going was clear. They would make it, come hell or high water, and God help the man or beast that stood in their way. Shaw glanced back down at Rachel, raising his voice to carry throughout the bay.

“You have a go!” There was a cheer from all those assembled, along with lots of backslapping and howling. They were proud of themselves and those with them and eager to accomplish their mission.

Rachel grinned as she stepped away from the others and came to attention, saluting her CO.

Shaw returned the salute with a grin as well. “Kick ass, Lieutenant.” He turned to Sergeant Carson and shook the man’s hand. “It’s your show now, Sergeant. Get ‘em home.”

Carson nodded and saluted as well. “Damn right, sir.” He followed Rachel toward the convoy and mounted up in the second vehicle, the command Humvee. The first in line, the Hunter’s scouting vehicle, took off as soon as Rachel set foot inside. It wasn’t long before the rest of the convoy had pulled out, with the Stryker and second Hunter Humvee bringing up the rear. As the dust settled and the remaining personnel prepared for closing the big doors, Jennifer turned to her husband.

“I think you’re better at those speeches than you realize, Bill,” she said and laughed.

“Maybe so, but they’ve got a long way to go.” He didn’t return her laugh. “A long way to go and a short time to get there. Fare well, my friends. Fare well.”

Church Scouting Post
Outside Angel Fire, New Mexico

The leader watched as one of the runners—Brother Michael, if memory served—coughed and tried to catch his breath as he stood in the sand-colored tent of the Church’s camp. The runner coughed again and spat to one side to clear the sand from his mouth and throat.

The cell’s leader ordered one of the acolytes to bring the scout some water from their limited supply. Before his posting here, he would’ve had the scout beaten for such an affront to his person—spitting on his floor. But the desert had hardened him to the necessities of existence in such a climate, and he barely noticed it now.

“Your report, Brother,” the leader said.

Michael nodded and spoke, his voice hoarse and graveled from long exposure to desert winds. “Many trucks, Brother. There were Hunters with them as well and the large vehicle with the thunder-cannons on the top.”

The leader sighed at the limited intelligence of the men with which he had to work. No, not limited intelligence, simple ignorance. There was no formal schooling allowed in the Church other than the dictates of His Holiness Archbishop Wright. This had left many of their followers ill-informed.

He sighed again, this time at his internal blasphemy, and added to the day’s count of self-inflicted lashes. For the mortification of the flesh was the most holy of their daily rites and would cleanse his soul of this sin—later, at any rate.

The scout still stood at some semblance of attention, waiting for further instructions. The leader thought for a moment, then spoke. “We will marshal our forces with those of our Brethren to the east and catch the evildoers between us. They will perish in fire and blood. As it is written, so let it be done. Go now and prepare our people.”

All his people left except his nameless manservant. His guards secured the tent flap from the outside, and he sat on the carpet. “Bring me the device,” he said, and the servant scurried to the corner of the tent and the heavy oaken chest that lay there. The servant retrieved the bulky satellite phone, then returned to his usual place on the carpet to one side.

The leader regarded the wretch as he unfolded the phone’s antenna and wondered again where the man had come from. He knew the slave would not speak out of turn, as he had cut the tongue from the slave’s mouth and cauterized the wound himself. Still, it irked him that he knew nothing else about someone so close to his person for such an extended period.

He turned on the phone, and the autodialing process connected him with a member of the archbishop’s staff. “Brother Ezekiel, you have word?” the voice on the line said.

“I do. The blasphemers have left their hole and are moving sunward. It is my wish that Brother Benjamin’s believers should ally with mine to destroy them between us with righteous vengeance.”

There was a pause on the line, and then the voice spoke. “Very well, Brother Ezekiel. We will make arrangements as needed. Know you the place called ‘Clayton, New Mexico’?”

Ezekiel prayed for patience and held his breath to avoid shouting at the man. He cursed the need to speak with such archaic language and deliberate idiocy. What did this buffoon think, that he’d never heard of the town of Clayton? Or the state of New Mexico? Moron! He took another deep breath and added ten lashes to his daily total.

“Yes, I know of it.”

“Good. You will meet Brother Benjamin’s forces there and deliver the righteous vengeance of our Lord unto the blasphemers. Pray for guidance, Brother Ezekiel. And do not fail.”

Ezekiel started to respond, but the line had gone dead, so he folded the antenna back into the phone. “Take this and bring me my scourge,” he said, removing his arms from his robe. The fabric fell away but stuck a bit to the not-quite-healed wounds from the previous day’s lashes. He took a deep breath and strengthened himself for the task ahead.

“Lord, give me strength…”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bunker Eight Convoy
Outside Clayton, New Mexico

The radio squawked to life on the dashboard of the command Humvee. “Romeo Six, Lima Three, come in.”

Sergeant Carson recognized Rachel’s callsign. “Go for Romeo Six.”

“Multiple tangoes ahead. They’ve blocked the road, as expected.”

Carson swore. They weren’t even in the city yet, and their precious cargo was already jeopardized. To be fair, Clayton wasn’t a thriving metropolis, at just over a mile from side to side, but that wasn’t the point. “Roger, Lima Three. Alternate route?”

“None yet. Recommend you hold position while we look around.”

“Can we push through?”

“Not unless you’ve got a snowplow on the front of your ride, Romeo Six. They’ve stacked a couple wrecked cars.”

Carson swore again. “Acknowledged. We’ll hold here. Romeo Six out.” He threw the radio back into its cradle and spat out the window in frustration. “Fuck! I hate being out here like this.”

“You and me both, Sarge,” Fasco said. The private had refused to let anyone else drive once he got patched up. Now he ran a hand over his bicep, where he’d taken the bullet in Clovis.

Carson shook his head. “Look at me, Fasco,” he said and looked him straight in the eye. “You and I are getting through this. We will not give these sons of bitches the satisfaction. Hooah?”

“Fuckin’ hooah, Sarge,” Fasco said, and Carson could see the set of his jaw. The kid was ready as he’d ever be to go back into the fire.

“It’s always fucking something,” he muttered. He climbed out of the Humvee, eager to take the chance to stretch his legs out of rifle range of the small town. Unless there was a nutjob in one of the small houses off the road.

“They’re out there, I know it. I can feel them. The stink of crazy is in the air. This is gonna suck. This is
so
gonna suck.” Carson rapped with a fist on the back of the Stryker, and the ramp came down. With one foot on the ramp, he nodded at the woman stationed at the monitors in the vehicle. “Any movement on the REAPR?” he asked.

The airman shook her head. “Nothing yet, sir.”

“They’re out there. Don’t take your eyes off those screens. We will not have a repeat of Clovis. Do you get me, Airman?”

“Yes, sir. Sir? What happened in Clovis?”

“A shitstorm, Airman. But we’ve got you now, right? You and Betty here. Everything’s gonna be peachy keen, ain’t it?”

“I… I guess so, sir.”

“Betty will take care of ya.”

Carson looked at the ruined buildings on the outskirts of the small town. He had that feeling he always got just before things went to shit. It was a warm, comfortable feeling, one that he’d gotten used to over the years. Almost an old friend. But nothing ever went to plan when he got that feeling.

“Not this time,” he whispered, then turned back to the airman. “Button it up! Get the Hunters back here. We’re punching through. Y’all move up and take point. There’s nothing this bitch can’t handle.”

“Yes, sir,” the airman said. She began to issue orders to the Hunters as the Stryker’s ramp closed.

Carson had just made it back to the command Humvee when he noticed the cloud of dust rising over the horizon. “Romeo Six, Big Betty,” he heard from the radio.

“Romeo Six, go ahead, Betty.”

“Multiple hostiles, sir! Count at least four ground vehicles closing fast on our six.”

“Here we go,” he said and nodded as he picked up the radio. “Lima Three, Romeo Six. Come in.”

“We’re on our way back, Romeo Six.”

“Do you see the dust cloud at your twelve o’clock?”

“What?” Rachel asked. “Yeah, but what—”

“Is it a
haboob?”

“No, it’s not big enough. Those are solid walls of dust, this is broken and—oh, shit.”

“Exactly. We’ve been made. We’re en route. I want y’all to bring up the rear, but stay close.” Carson grinned as the convoy moved out once more and the Stryker filled his forward field of vision. “Betty’s gonna punch a hole for us.”

It was only a minute or two before Carson passed the scout Humvee where it idled on the roadside. By that point, he could hear the approaching vehicles, even if he couldn’t see them. They were loud enough to pick out over the roar of the Stryker, and that was saying something. He looked back out of the Humvee’s right side and saw the scout vehicle take its place in line as rear guard.

“Betty, Romeo Six.”

“Go ahead, Six.”

“Whatever we come to up there, you keep that hammer down, got it? Punch through.”

“Yes, sir.”

He saw the exterior hatch on the top of the vehicle swing shut as the vehicle picked up speed.

“All units, all units, maintain speed. Fire at will. Say again, fire at will.”

He couldn’t see around the Stryker, and that forced Carson to keep an eye on the side streets and the occasional backward glance. It only took a minute for him to be able to see the first of the pursuing vehicles, and at the same time, his rearguard radioed in.

“Lima Three, we have contact.”

Carson could both hear and see the intermittent cracks and flashes of light from the rifles carried by the Hunter squad. He doubted their efficacy at such long distances, but he stopped doubting when one of the vehicles swerved and spun out
Mad Max
-style off to the side. It wasn’t the first time these freaks had made him think of that classic movie.