Walking in the Rain (Book 4): Dark Sky Thunder (20 page)

Carly nodded. “I’d heard you two were engaged. Awful young, don’t you think?”

Wes hissed, his distress visible as his face reddened. Carly, however, was a plainspoken woman and it was one of the things I admired about her. She was the kind of woman who would say what she meant, and mean what she said.

“I guess you could say that. Amy’s only a year younger than me, though. What’s a year? And we’ve been through a lot together. I can see how you might think that Amy is too young, but Amy’s mature beyond her years,” I responded, trying to be as polite as Carly was when discussing a sensitive matter. And I could tell from Carly’s approach that she considered this such a topic.

“Please, I don’t mean to offend. I’ve just heard, well, you are both just starting out in life. And the chance of bringing a child into this world makes me shiver.”

I laughed. “No chance of that, Carly. Amy and I plan on waiting until our wedding night, if that is of any concern.”

Now it was Carly’s turn to redden in the face. I guess my plain response was a little too blunt. “Sorry, Luke. Not any of my business.”

“Well,” Wes chimed in, seeming to regard Carly’s chagrin with good humor. “You know what they say about Luke. He takes care of these young ladies as if they were kin. In fact, I made a point of waving off Timothy. He had his heart set on pursuing the little one.”

I turned abruptly, catching Wes with my eyes. The older man didn’t seem to think anything was wrong. “The little one?” I asked, my voice unnaturally mild.

“Yeah, Lori. He thinks she’s really cute. Of course, she’s a little older than him, but like you said, what is a year’s difference.”

Oh. The name finally registered, too. Tim was a painfully thin teenager I’d met, but I hadn’t known his age. That made him about sixteen, or my age. Which was weird because when I look at Tim, I automatically think
kid
. Why would I think that?

“Tim seems like a nice enough young man. Tell him to feel free to court Lori. He just needs to understand that like everybody else, Lori’s seen her share of pain these last few months. And her brother, Scott, might still be a tad overprotective.”

“I think you are their protector, are you not?” Carly asked, suddenly shy about the topic. I’m not sure what she’s heard, and I don’t want to betray any confidences, so I just ignore the careful question. Maybe I am Lori’s protector, and Summer, and the rest of my little band of misfits. Scott is right there with me though, and I wouldn’t be sexist. All of the females in the group, even flighty Connie, proved themselves against the latest batch of invaders.

“I try to protect all my friends. Like I told Paul when we first met, you can’t have too many friends in this world.”

Wes laughed then. “That’s a good point. Now, tell us about this fight up in McAlester. I’ve heard hints here and there, but it must be one hell of a tale.”

I threw up my hands in mock disgust. “All right. I’ll tell it tonight, but first let’s finish up what we are doing here. If I show up without the curly doc and the wild onions I promised Miss Darla, she’ll likely tan my hide.”

That got of laugh from both of my new friends and we set about doing the foraging. We had plenty of onions still, but I wanted to show Carly how to find them without pulling random, and possibly poisonous, weeds.

And while we worked, Wes bagged two rabbits with his pellet gun. The stew at the Skillman place would be good tonight, I decided. As was part of our ritual, they would invite me to dinner and I would politely decline. Even with Mom putting her foot down to invite the two unattached women with kids into the house under the hill, the Skillman folks needed as much food in their bellies as they could manage. After Miss Beth gave them all physicals, she wanted the men especially to eat as much protein as they could manage. She was worried some of the men and a few of the women may have suffered some organ damage from malnutrition. It was a sobering thought.

So we worked and played, but we kept our guard up, too. But I think some of us, maybe me included, thought the worst was behind us. We’d all seen horrors and deprivation these last months, but for two weeks, nobody shot at me or tried to nab me for the roasting spit.

I spent my off time getting to know Amy even better and reconnecting with my family after the long separation. We even played softball one evening out by the horse pasture, though sliding in to home plate with a holstered pistol left some interesting bruises on my hip.

This time was a healing one for us and served to hearten us in the hard days yet to come.

It was a Tuesday in early September when trouble came to call at our front gate. As soon as I saw the two deputies rolling up the drive in an old, rusted four-door relic from the 1960s, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. I didn’t know it was deputies at first, not until they turned broadside to the gate, but something made me suddenly feel apprehensive.

I was on the front gate that morning, doubled up with Scott. I glassed the front approaches while my friend sat at the console desk and observed the output from surveillance feeds. Since the last attack, and the influx of a few more fighters from the Greenville contingent, we’d upped the guard with a pair in the bunker and another pair on roving foot patrol. Checking the schedule, I saw that Tim and Alex were on the roving patrol.

“Two deputies at the gate,” I announced, “and they are getting out of their car.”

“What should I do?” Scott asked, and it was a valid question. Not openly hostile, and supposedly these were law enforcement. But, maybe Scott was feeling the same itch between his shoulder blades.

“Call it in to Mike on the house phone,” I said over my shoulder as I continued to observe the two lawmen. With the troubles, the Center Police Department—what was left of it—merged with the County Sheriff’s Department, so it was possible I didn’t know these two men. Then the driver turned and suddenly I remembered him. Deputy Mark, I recalled. The blowhard from my standoff in the park.

“Where are you going?” Scott asked.

“Going to meet our guests. Something doesn’t feel right. Better up the status to orange.”

“Anything got you concerned?”

I shrugged. “Just a feeling. They’re here unannounced and acting a little squirrelly.”

“You don’t think something happened…”

He didn’t have to finish the question …
with my dad.
He was in Center, working with the new deputies. These were mainly reserves pressed into fulltime active duty. Some had valuable experience, Dad confided, while others might be better suited helping fill out paperwork. Unfortunately, the department lacked those kinds of jobs anymore.

“No, I doubt it. Let me go see what they want.”

As I lowered the binoculars, I saw one of the deputies, not Deputy Mark, examining the metal hangers and posts for the wrought iron gate. This wasn’t a casual glance, but a measuring look. And both men looked a little fidgety. I decided to announce my approach way in advance.

As I climbed up out of the covered doorway into the bunker, I unslung my rifle and leaned back against the concrete block structure. At only one hundred feet from the gate, I knew my voice would carry to them, but I wasn’t about to expose myself yet.

“What can we do for you gentlemen?” I called out.

Though I couldn’t see them, I could guess the two men were looking for the source of the question. “Sheriff sent us,” came the gruff reply. “He wants us to pick up Deputy Messner’s kid. Boy named Luke.”

I felt the knot in my stomach tightening. Likely, Scott heard the news as well. Had something actually happened to my father? He knew the risks in helping Sheriff Henderson, but that knowledge did nothing to make me feel better at the moment.

“He say what it was about?” I called again.

“Don’t know,” the same gruff voice replied. Sounded like a smoker to me. Low and gravelly. “Probably has something to do with his old man. Just get him up here. Or we can come in and get him.”

“All right. We’ll send a runner back. Keep your shirt on, deputy.”

Peeking back inside, I spoke softly to Scott.

“Something’s not right. Get somebody up here to cover for me. And let Mike know I think we should go Red.”

Red, not surprising, was our highest alert status. Some folks, my father in particular, wanted to use some other, meaningless term as a code word, but the civilian recruits successfully pointed out that we might forget or misunderstand a “Code Delta” or “Flying Squirrel” code, but Red Alert pretty much told the story right there.

“You’re not going, are you?” Scott asked, his voice tight with worry.

“I think I have to. What if it is just me being paranoid? Again. Look, I know the signs. Hypervigilance, short temper, the works. I know. So what if I’m wrong? No, I need to go and see what they want. I may be jumping at shadows.”

“All right. Be safe.”

“Aren’t I always?” I shot back.

“Uh, need I remind you what happened the first time we met?” Scott retorted.

Shoot. “I’m never living that one down, am I?”

“No,” was his succinct reply.

“Didn’t think so. Just keep a sharp watch. And try to keep Amy out of trouble while I’m gone.”

“Yeah. Why don’t you tell her you’ll be gone for a while?”

“I might be crazy,” I replied in parting, “but I ain’t stupid.”

As I walked around the corner of the bunker, I saw the two men tense up. Deputy Mark, or was it Mike? Either way, the deputy I recognized dropped his hand to the butt of his holstered pistol while the other man shifted his slung rifle for easier access. At over seventy-five feet, the rifle was a bigger threat, unless Deputy Mark was a sharpshooter with that pistol.

“Shit, it is you,” my old acquaintance hissed. I saw the muscles in his forearm and shoulder flex. I realized he was only a hairsbreadth away from drawing down on me. Since I carried the M4 at the low ready, I indexed my finger inside the trigger guard. Since I was carrying with a round chambered, all I needed to do was lift, flip the safety, and stroke the trigger. Still, I tried to diffuse the situation.

“Whoa, hold up there deputy,” I cried out. “I’m Lucas Messner. I just heard you needed to take me to see the sheriff?”

“Yeah, kid. Sheriff’s orders,” the unknown deputy intoned, his voice steady and clear. He was watching me, all geared up, rifle in hand, and didn’t blink. I took that as a bad sign. He wasn’t surprised to see me in this rig, I decided.

“And you can’t bring them guns,” the jumpy deputy added, and I saw him lift the pressure from the pistol butt. But from the sneer plastered on his face, I knew I’d certainly not made a friend here.

“Sorry Lucas. You ride with us, you have to shuck them weapons. County policy,” the calm deputy added, and I could tell right there who was the brains of this outfit. He was the more dangerous, even with Deputy Mark’s heightened temper. He was cold and unconcerned. So whatever was making him jumpy earlier was clearly not little old me.

“How about I meet you guys at the office? We’ve got another old farm truck here that still runs. No offense, but the roads still aren’t completely safe and I’d rather be able to defend myself.”

“Boy, we drove all the way out here to pick you up. You are going with us. Now drop them weapons and get your ass over here,” Mr. Personality barked, and I sighed. And walked back over to the bunker.

“Where do you think you are going, son?” Mr. Cool asked.

“Like you guys said. Dropping off my weapons and gear. Give me a second, and we can get going.”

Pausing behind the shield of the bunker, I quickly shed my magazine rig, vest, and pistol belt, carefully rolling up the articles until everything was secured. I’d debated about the body armor, but since I’d stolen it from a dead fed, I figured I would need to leave it behind as well. Hell, even if this was legit, these assholes might try to requisition it anyway.

I was wearing a pair of my painter’s blue jeans with all the extra pockets, and I checked those pouches before I returned to sight of the two deputies. I was wearing an untucked western-style button-up shirt and work boots but no visible weapons.

I expected a frisk, or at least a pat down once I passed through the man gate on the side of the main gate, but the two men just looked me over quickly and Deputy Mark grunted in sour satisfaction.

“Get in the car,” he ordered, “we’re already late.”

“So you haven’t seen my dad today?” I asked again, pressing.

The cool character just shook his head as I approached the beat up old car. He was a white guy in his mid-thirties I gauged, with a short, stocky build that made me suspect he’d hadn’t missed as many meals as the rest of us. His mustache reminded me of a bushy caterpillar and he had the thick eyebrows to match. All set around a small, upturned nose and eyes the shade of cow-shit-brown. Even if my nerves weren’t already clanging a warning, the sight of this well-fed deputy would have sounded alarm bells.

So why did I go? These two clowns didn’t have the firepower to threaten the ranch, and I could have simply declined their “offer” of a ride. But this was my home. I didn’t want to make waves here or draw attention to myself any more than I already had with my arrival.

If my paranoia was simply flaring up, and the sheriff really did need to ask me some questions in private, then giving the man’s flunkies the finger might not go over too well. I, we, had too much to lose to rock the boat with Sheriff Henderson. So, gentle as a lamb, I climbed into the back of the nasty old car and looked around in vain for a seatbelt. Only once I was seated did I notice the absence of inside door hands, and the makeshift metal cage separated the back seat from the front.

Okay. That made sense. If this was a makeshift LEO vehicle, then they would rig their ride to reflect that status. But I had to stifle a laugh as I realized the metal screen was actually made out of what appeared to be old mattress springs, overlaid and welded into place.

As the big engine clattered to life, I saw my buddy Mark in the driver’s seat while the other deputy said something into a handheld radio he’d left in the car. That was interesting since the small sleek device looked nothing like the big bulky radios the sheriff’s department was currently using to communicate.