Highway: A Post-Apocalyptic Tale of Survival Read online

  She lifted the gun, which felt like an iron weight, and pointed at this other man, fully expecting him to rush her as well. She wouldn’t miss her first shot this time.

  The man spun on his heels and dashed out of sight.

  She remained in place and waited, the heft of the gun forcing her arms down. But the man was gone. Travis stood up from behind a tree, mouth agape, and just stared at Lexi, who shrugged her shoulders as if to say “Who knew I had it in me?” Feeling confident the man was gone, she walked up to Travis and asked in a businesslike tone, “Are you hurt?”

  At first, he said nothing, as if he was in shock. Then, “N … no,” he said with a sniffle.

  She collected the items on the ground that Gut-shot Man had pulled out from his rolling luggage, and shoved them back in. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before that man comes back.”

  He slowly at first picked up one thing, then another, then moved quicker with each second, afraid that the man would return while they were cleaning up.

  Within a minute, they had collected everything, zippered it all into his bag, and were racing down the road. First running, then trotting, finally walking at a fairly decent clip.

  But they had to stop.

  Lexi bent over uncontrollably and heaved the remains of last night’s hamburger and this afternoon’s beef jerky, until all that was left was a long line of spittle, and nothing else.

  She heaved again.

  She had never shot anyone before. She never watched a man die either, except for her father.

  She shuddered at this thought and heaved again.

  Chapter 8

  Frank

  As when waking from a nightmare, Frank was filled with an overwhelming nervous anxiety that couldn’t be explained. He halted his ATV, but couldn’t stop his disquiet.

  The afternoon air clung to him, a wet blanket that dampened everything, and yet his skin was cool and prickly. His heart pounded in his chest and a fire grew in the pit of his stomach. These foreign feelings were unsettling for a veteran of numerous combat missions. It wasn’t fear, an emotion that he had long ago conquered but had seen possess many men like an evil specter. And it wasn’t adrenaline, which was his faithful servant on the battlefield. This sensation was something with which he was wholly unfamiliar. He pulled on the reins of this bucking bull, desperately trying to regain control.

  What the hell was going on?

  At one time, in multiple theaters he’d been considered an expert at killing enemies, including some of the vilest creatures vomited from hell itself, but he was always able to perform his duties dispassionately. It was his job of course, and he was damn good at it. More than this, for Frank, it was a simple matter of separating himself from the weight of emotions which were normal when a soldier was forced to take another human’s life. He looked at his emotions like a heavy winter coat that he’d hang up and leave at home before going into battle, and that he could always put back on when he needed to feel again, which wasn’t often. After a while, it was just easier to leave the coat off. This probably explained why he was alone. Yet, all this was necessary: avoiding emotional entanglements kept him and his men alive.

  But there were some emotions he couldn’t separate himself from, such as that time in Fallujah—his last battle—when all those kids died from Army grenades. After that he had given up battle and taken retirement.

  But that was a long time ago.

  Since retirement, he’d allowed himself to become mentally and physically out of shape for battle.

  He sneered at this thought, and gave a self-deprecating pat to his belly, slightly bulging under his tactical vest. It, like the rest of his body, had grown flabby from a diet of beer and the laziness born from his retirement from the Army. Yet, even when he was at the top of his game, this exercise was decidedly different than all of his previous missions.

  It was anger.

  He was fuming that some group of assholes had tried to kill him, on his own land no less. More agitating was that these pricks were Islamic jihadists, raised in a brand of Islam he had experienced first-hand. He’d always thought if the Middle East, and perhaps the world, was ever going to survive this plague, Radical Islam would need to be eradicated. But, what filled him with rage was that these religious nut-jobs attacked his country without provocation, and would probably end up killing a hundred million of his fellow Americans by the time their nuclear dust settled.

  That must be the reason for the uncontrollable earthquake of emotions rumbling inside of him.

  He couldn’t shake off his emotional coat this time. In fact, he didn’t want to. This time, he’d zip it up and feel its warmth. It would be like a partner in a three-legged race, a race with a prize much larger than a home-baked apple pie. And if he did embrace his mate, he might just be able to vanquish his enemies and avoid getting himself killed.

  Knowing this now, Frank forced his warrior self—and his new partner—to focus on his plan, tempering his fury. His mind started to chew at each morsel of his strategy, like individual peas at a Sunday family dinner. His purposes were simple. He needed intel about his enemies: What were they doing in Stowell? Why did they attack him? What do they have planned next? As a bonus he would pacify his vengeful partner with the opportunity to annihilate a few terrorists.

  Retribution!

  He drove a few hundred yards more, parking a mile away, under a dense tree on the bank of the Spindletop. Even though his heavily muffled exhaust system was designed to be stealthy, in a world of loud silence, absent all mechanical noises, he needed to be sure they didn’t hear his approach.

  He marched purposefully through the heavy growth and mud, considering what he might find at Maldonado’s while he scanned ahead and around his perimeter with his AK 74.

  It was twelve years ago this month, when he completed his last operation.

  He felt every one of those twelve years in his body. He was not in good shape any longer, and he had a bum knee—lest he forget, it reminded him with each step. Still, he figured he was just as lethal up close as he was before, and certainly better than any damned rag-headed terrorist.

  Now that his friend adrenaline was kicking in, he was instantly reminded of the pleasurable rush he’d experienced just before going into battle. He was ready.

  He crept up to the end of the thick weeded area, cleared of trees years ago, and knelt—on his good knee—before the Maldonados’ walled pool area and their usually manicured yard leading to the back of their sprawling ranch-style home. The property looked out of sorts through the Aimpoint PRO scope.

  He’d been back here only once, right after he’d retired and moved back into his residence full-time. Buzz and Samantha Maldonado served Frank over-the-top hors d’oeuvres and expensive wine, as if they were trying to impress him. He’d have been happier with a Bud and a burger. The presentation of their pool and manicured grounds were impressive then.

  Now in the green water of the pool a moldy-looking seat cushion floated with other debris, and the grounds looked like they’d been untouched for months. It was as if no one had lived there in that timespan. The only sign of life was on the patio area leading to the rear slider. A large space on the tiled patio was cleared away and looked recently swept, with debris and trash pushed to the sides. In the middle were several oriental rugs lined up, three by three.

  He made a mental note that all were aligned east-to-west.

  After scanning the terrain, he moved up the south side of the property and toward the front of the home, keeping inside the tall growth, unseen. So far, he had spotted only two men. Both wore paramilitary garb, similar to what the men wore who’d attacked him last night. Each was at a different point around the home, patrolling the grounds.

  He worked his way around to the other side of the overgrown grounds, back toward the rear where he had started his surveillance. Within a few steps of a small shed, by the pool, the familiar but cruel smell of death crept into his nostrils. He peered through the shed’s little
window, dusted over by the elements, and saw the Maldonados. Their corpses were dried out like mummies at an Egyptian exhibit. The uniform holes in their heads confirmed their deaths had been quick.

  They had been there for several months, meaning these men had probably been here that long, unnoticed all this time and yet very likely associated with those who attacked the US. This made him boil even more. He wanted to kill these bastards and he wanted to do it now. But patience was a virtue here. Because he didn’t see any vehicles, and there had to be more men than just these two, he would come back in the evening, suspecting any others would return by then.

  Frank made his way quietly to the river bounding the rear of the Maldonados’ property, making sure that he had not been heard. The ATV was exactly where he’d left it, covered over by leafy branches from the ubiquitous river birches which stood at attention at each side of the river’s banks. He mounted it and drove slowly south holding closely to the banks of this mostly dry small stream bed, soon to be bursting from seasonal rains.

  He was anxious to get back home and gather what he needed. It was Independence Day and he was anxious to start the fireworks.

  Yes, he thought to himself, an explosion would be wonderfully poetic irony for these bastards.

  ~~~

  Hassan Hameed was still seething, several hours after the American pig had thwarted his plans and killed three of his men, forcing a hasty retreat.

  “Like dogs we ran,” he emoted passionately to his men.

  Hassan considered his failure as he and most of his remaining men marched down the highway toward Cartwright’s compound.

  This morning’s mission should have been easy, as it was the last piece of their plan to secure a ten-mile corridor from I-10 and Stowell down to the Gulf. Hassan obtained the automatic gun records of all Texans in this area from a bribed records clerk at the Houston office of the ATF, who taxes and oversees ownership of older automatic weapons. He snickered at the stupidity of Americans to allow themselves to be restricted to only ancient automatic weapons and to have those tracked by their government and available for the taking.

  From what he gathered, only one man had an automatic weapon—and that was Frank Cartwright. And although Cartwright was ex-Army, Hassan hadn’t been worried, because they had the tactical advantage.

  In the three months they had been living among the community, using American names and pretending to be relatives of the Maldonados’, they learned a lot: Cartwright was mostly a loner, with no visitors. He came to town twice a month to share breakfast with a few other elderly men and gossip like old women. The few who knew him spoke of a nice man, who wasn’t a hazard. Still, Hassan was given instructions to take out anybody with weapons sufficient enough to mount a fight against them.

  Based on all of this intel, Hasson decided to take only a third of his men, sure that a retired elderly man, living alone, would be easily overpowered by their own firepower and numbers. They had planned to burn his house down if they couldn’t shoot him or if he locked himself inside. County tax records listed it as a wooden ranch-style home. It should have been simple.

  What Hassan didn’t expect was that Cartwright had a fortified compound, and he was prepared for their attack. Only later, after it was too late, did Hassan realize their attack was too overt and without sufficient manpower.

  Now, he would finish the job and get his revenge. Hassan grabbed his remaining men, leaving only two at the property to patrol in case anyone might stop by, even though no one had since they’d taken over the property from the previous occupants. And with the American electrical grid down and many vehicles incapacitated by the EMPs, he expected no one else would.

  They parked their two remaining trucks a mile down the road—no one was likely to question this with abandoned vehicles everywhere—and walked to Cartwright’s, watching for anyone who might pose a threat to them.

  This time, when they quietly arrived at the house, it appeared empty as a tomb. And if he was there, it soon would be his permanent place of rest.

  Immediately upon arrival, Hassan could see another problem. The house appeared to be a giant steel cage that they couldn’t break into without more powerful explosives or an acetylene torch, neither of which they had. The windows were bulletproof and the doors were hardened, capable of withstanding even an RPG’s blast. And yet Cartwright was nowhere to be seen.

  Hassan’s sniper had a Baher-23 sighted on Cartwright’s tower, if he should appear. He never did. He was either inside hiding, or he had left.

  A deep, tooth-rattling boom sounded from in back of the house; a thick swirl of smoke signaled its location. Hassan ran to it and saw four of his men—or rather pieces of them scattered from the blast. Cartwright had set up an IED by the back door and in the process killed more of his men.

  “Ahhh!” Hassan screamed. “Burn it down. Burn it all down.”

  The one of the five remaining men who’d been carrying an open canister of gas splashed it every ten feet onto the side of the house. Others lit the splashes, creating a spider web of flames that crawled up the sides of the house which then widened until the entire house was ablaze.

  “We’re out of gasoline sir. We can’t burn down the garage,” said the man with the canister.

  “Leave it,” Hassan said. He turned to the rest of his men. “We need to leave. Cartwright is probably inside.” He signaled and they started to walk briskly away from the house.

  In the back of his mind, he knew it wasn’t over. But he had to prepare for the next wave, and he couldn’t afford to lose any more men. When the next wave came, none of this would matter as all the infidels would be brought to their knees.

  Chapter 9

  Lexi & Travis

  Lexi and Travis plodded down the middle of the highway, their heads weighted down by gravity, fatigue, and insurmountable grief. For hours they’d been marching side- by side in silence. The only sounds in and around this highway were the squeals of their spinning rolla-board wheels and the cicadas chirping their songs of summer.

  After their escape from the clutches of the two bums and her inadequate apology to Travis, they headed west on the highway, just as their father had instructed. Surprisingly, they found no one else on the road. Only the occasional abandoned car. This was just fine with Lexi. She couldn’t deal with people right now; her brother was barely tolerable

  Their plan was simple; walk west to get to Abe’s house, figuring it would take three days to cover the sixty or so miles by foot. They didn’t know why they were being sent there, only that it was safe and it’s where their dad, in his dying breath, had sent them.

  She was in no mood to talk or plan their next meal or to think about anything, for that matter. She was completely spent.

  They stopped once, for what Travis called a potty break, then to hydrate and consume a quiet brunch of beef jerky and chips. She was already tiring of the jerky’s taste and it made her thirsty, and that made her worried they’d guzzle their water supplies too quickly. Too many worries for a little girl, her mom would say.

  It was during this stop that she decided to explore the reaches of what was now her bug-out bag. She finally understood what this term meant as a book inside it, called the Prepper Brothers Guide to the Apocalypse: Surviving the First Seven Days After an EMP, told her this was applied to a backpack that someone paranoid about an EMP-caused end-of-the-world event would use to survive in their attempt to make it back home. Ironically, this was exactly what they were trying to do. She didn't feel like flipping through more, intending to read it later, as her father obviously had this specific book in this pack for a reason.

  There was also an iRonsnow radio with a hand-crank to generate power, and cords to charge a cell phone. She had Travis slowly turn the crank, while she attempted to get a radio station, and they powered up their father's cell phone. After a few minutes, she realized finding a radio station was futile. Perhaps they were too far away.

  The cell phone turned on, although it only had a
7% charge. But right away, she could see it wouldn't matter. “No Network” told her what she needed to know. Either they were outside of cell service, which she didn't believe, or cell service was down. A dull fear crept into her then that maybe all services everywhere in the US were down. Maybe readers of the book she now carried weren't paranoid after all. Maybe this really was the end of the world. She shook her head free of these worries—like I need more—and tried to explore her daddy's phone.

  So that she could fiddle with it, and because Travis continued to toss impatient gazes her way, she handed him a small, rectangular wood box that clanged when she shook it. “Why don't you see if you can figure out how to open this.” She then set her sights on the phone, hoping maybe his phone book or texts might shed some more light on who he really was. She vaguely remembered him playing with it just before she nodded off, and just before the accident.

  Unfortunately, this too would be fraught with frustration as his keypad was locked and she had no idea what four-numbered code to try. And with ten thousand combos, she'd have to play with it later. It was time to move on. They had a lot of territory to cover.

  “Wow. Look Lex, there's medals in here!” Travis’s eyes were wide as he held it out for her to see.

  Lexi snatched the opened box from him. She should have given him the phone to figure out instead. “Not now, Travis. We need to get moving.” She slid the box closed, and placed it and the other items back into the pack, where she had found them.

  They continued their trek in silence.

  With all the questions and images running through her head, Lexi couldn’t dislodge the vision of the man she might have killed—or probably had killed—from her mind. No matter how much she hated her father for abandoning them, his dying in front of them both was more than enough death for either to deal with. But then she’d had to kill a man, and it was still the same day? She longed to be home and away from all this death.