The Search (8 page)

     She needed time to heal.

     Martel didn’t know that. He sensed that perhaps he’d hit her too hard, but it was too late to go back.

     There were no do-overs.

     All he could do was hope she didn’t die before she regained consciousness.

     That would be an awful shame.

     For him. Not for her. Because he didn’t give a diddly damn about her.

     As long as he had his naked sex slave. And someone to cook and clean and do his laundry.

     “You’d better not die on me, bitch. I went through too damn much trouble to get you. I earned you, and you’re mine.”

Chapter 16

     Officer Mike Petty sat in his Crown Victoria cruiser on a hill a half mile south of the San Angelo city limit sign.

     He’d already radioed in to report seeing a desert brown Hummer creeping overland toward the city.

     Petty had the eyes of a hawk, and they’d picked up the slowly approaching vehicle when it was more than a mile away.

     “Are you sure, Mike? That sounds like the Army coming to pay us a visit.”

     “Well, it’s definitely a Hummer. And it’s definitely desert brown. Too soon to find out who’s driving it, though. I’ll keep you posted.”

     “You want some backup? I can have Wesley head over from the west side of town. He’s probably sleeping. ‘Bout time he did something.”

     A third voice broke into the conversation.

     “Hey, watch it, you lying sack. I woke up from my nap over an hour ago. I’m headed your way, Mike. I’ll be there in five, maybe ten.”

     “Ten four. I’ll have him stopped by then, but I’ll hold back until you’re on scene.”

     “Ten four.”

     Mike had been out of the police academy barely a month when news of Saris 7 broke. He never got a chance to be a rookie. Rookies were supposed to take a back seat. Watch the more seasoned officers. Learn by copying what the veterans did.

     Mike never had that option.

     When Saris 7 hit the news, half the department scattered near and far. Many officers who had family members in other cities or states went to rescue them. Others felt they were doomed, and no longer felt an allegiance to the citizens of San Angelo.

     They felt the need to stay home from work. To spend their last days with their wives and children.

     Some bought into the rumors that there was a ray of hope. Some of the talk show hosts were quoting quack scientists who said salvation was in Central America. That the tropical countries around the equator would survive the long freeze. That they would cool but still be able to sustain crops.

     And that anyone who made it that far would survive.

     Hundreds of thousands of Americans loaded their cars and headed south for the Mexican border, including a fair number of San Angelo’s police force.

     Mexico wasn’t used to massive numbers of people crossing into their territory. For generations it was the other way around. They weren’t equipped to handle it. And they knew that the incoming hoards would require gasoline, food and water that was already in short supply.

     So they sealed their borders from the invaders from the north.

     And what followed was a traffic jam which made the one Bryan and Bryan Too were driving past look like nothing.

     The traffic jam leading north from the Mexican border crossings stretched for hundreds of miles. Desperate drivers crossed over into the opposite lanes of traffic and caused accidents. Accidents which blocked the northbound lanes as well.

     By the time word got out over all the radio stations to turn back, every highway going into Mexico was a parking lot of trapped vehicles.

     It was a dreadful and very ugly situation.

     The drivers and their families were trapped in their cars with few options.

     The ones within walking distance of the border crossing walked into Mexico with whatever they could carry. The Mexican border guards were overwhelmed and didn’t try to stop them.

     But no one would help them, either. Almost all of them would perish within days.

     Others had the option of abandoning their cars and walking back to the nearest city. Most of them perished as well.

     Many didn’t even try. Easily twenty percent of the cars contained the dead bodies of families who’d given up. They’d run their heaters until the fuel was all gone while waiting for help to arrive. And they’d frozen to death, because help wasn’t coming.

     Or they’d shot themselves to death.

     Those families who had no guns or ammunition waited until they heard a flurry of shots from one of the other cars.

     Then they scurried over to retrieve the weapon to use on their own loved ones.

     Mike Petty wasn’t one of the poor souls who’d bought into the whole Central America sanctuary thing. It just sounded fishy to him.

     He’d sat down with his wife and asked her opinion. She said she didn’t want to leave her home when she was seven months pregnant.

     They decided to stick it out.

     So Mike and Patty had done what many of the other holdouts had done. They raided the abandoned trucks and markets for supplies, and moved into an abandoned house which had a fireplace. For heat they used chainsaws to cut down all the trees in the neighborhood. When those were gone they started tearing down other abandoned houses.

     It had been rough. But they’d survived.

     Until a month into the third year of the freeze.

     That was when marauders invaded their home while Mike was at work.

     They could have just taken what they wanted and left Patty and two year old Megan in peace.

     But instead they’d chosen to slaughter them.

     It was on that day that Officer Mike Petty joined The Movement.

     Oh, he was still a San Angelo Police officer. And a good one at that.

     For he’d learned the hard way how to be a cop. While the city was falling apart all around him.

     That day he’d come from a hard day at work, recovering bodies and burning them in the street, he’d found the bodies of his own wife and baby. And he’d decided that enough was enough.

     He’d given them a proper burial. Prayed over their graves in the back yard of their home. Cried and cursed the heavens.

     Then he went to see a fellow officer, Kevin Patton, who’d been recruiting good officers for The Movement.

     The Movement was a group of men and women who were tired of outsiders coming in and taking what they wanted, then leaving a trail of blood and tears in their wake.

     Some called them vigilantes. Others called them patriots. To the members of The Movement, they were nothing more than citizens.

     Citizens who’d had enough.

     A few days after he’d sworn his allegiance to the group, someone asked him: “Isn’t it a conflict of interest to be a police officer
and
a member of The Movement?”

     “No,” he’d told them. “There’s no reason I can’t do both. In fact, I think it’s a good thing to have some officers on the inside, so the members don’t cross too many lines, or get out of hand. They call us vigilantes. Well, maybe by being there I can keep them from being so.”

     That next day he’d gone east, on Interstate 20, five miles from the center of town, and helped a group of twenty men build an impassible roadblock.

     To keep outsiders outside.

     To make the marauders go elsewhere.

     To save what was left of the city of San Angelo.

     Within days every path in and out of the city was blocked in a similar manner.

     The marauders still came, on foot or on horseback. A few on trail bikes.

     But they were few and far between.

     It was too much effort for them now, when there were other more accessible targets in the area.

     And those who did come were watched closely.

     If they were merely seeking help, they were generally given it.

     For the citizens of San Angelo were for the most part good and empathetic people.

     If they were looking for trouble, they got that too.

     In spades.

     After a few of them were shot by firing squads or hung in Courthouse Square, word got around.

     San Angelo didn’t play.

     And outsiders coming into the city slowed to a trickle.

     That had been four, maybe five years before.

     Mike wasn’t even sure himself.

     Time was a concept that no longer seemed to matter much.

     These days, Mike’s world was centered around a mind-numbing routine.

     He’d help the citizens he could. He was still, first and foremost, a police officer.

     But he was also a sentinel. And as such, he’d be on the lookout for strangers coming into the city to cause havoc or do harm.

     The brown Hummer was within a hundred yards now.

     Mike reached down and turned on his flashing lights.

     He’d know within seconds whether the visitors were evil-doers.

     One of the things he’d learned lately was that people seeking help went to the nearest police car.

     Those with ill intent tried to avoid it.

     After it passed the last of the abandoned cars, the Hummer slowly drove onto the shoulder of the highway and back onto the cracked and weed-spotted pavement.

     It was driving toward Mike and his cruiser at slow speed.

     That was a good sign.

     But it could also be a prelude to an assault.

     Mike unhooked the strap on his service weapon and took it from his holster, then opened his car door and stepped outside.

Chapter 17

     Mike used his car door as a shield, and aimed his weapon through the open window.

     He knew the door wouldn’t stop a hail of high-powered bullets. But he had nothing else. And it was better than nothing.

     With his left hand, he keyed his collar microphone.

     “Wesley, how close are you?”

     “Two minutes. I should have you in sight after I come over the next rise.”

     “Do me a favor, will you? Make some noise so these guys know I’ve got the cavalry coming.”

     “Ten four.”

     Wesley Maikin reached down and turned on his siren, then switched it to max volume.

     He punched the gas pedal a little bit harder.

     Mike could see two heads in the Army vehicle.

     Of course, there could be more in the back, out of sight.

     The Hummer stopped twenty feet directly in front of him.

     He yelled, “Driver! Place both hands on the steering wheel!”

     Inside the Hummer Bryan Too muttered, “What the hell?”

     But he did as he was told.

     “Passenger, roll down the window with your right hand. Keep your left hand where I can see it!”

     Bryan said, “Don’t panic just yet. Maybe he’s just being overly cautious.”

     He rolled down the window, keeping his left hand visible in the vehicle’s windshield.

     Wesley was close enough now to cut his siren, having already announced his presence. He passed the stopped Hummer and made a U-turn fifty yards farther down the road. Then he pulled up in an adjacent lane, his front bumper even with the rear of the Hummer, got out and took a shooter’s stance.

     Mike continued his instructions.

     “Passenger! Place both hands out the passenger side window. Leave them there. If you place them back in the vehicle at any time I will open fire.”