The Day After Never - Covenant (Post-Apocalyptic Dystopian Thriller - Book 3) (6 page)

The young man emerged a minute later. Luis stepped into the street. “Need to hire a couple more men. You know anybody?”

“Might. What do you want?”

“Hardest mofos you know. Stone killers. Good with a gun and a knife; seen combat.”

“I know where to look.”

“Yeah?”

“Bar near the town center. Rowdies is the name.” Carlton nodded. “If anyone’s interested, we’ll find them there.”

“Rowdies, huh?” Luis turned to the Crew gunmen. “Tell Cano I’ll be back in a while. Let him know about the sheriff so we don’t get caught in town.”

Chapter 8

Lucas glanced up at the clouds overhead, a trailing remnant of the storm that had snuck up on them as they’d ridden east, and felt the first fine droplets of moisture land on his skin, the air charged with the electricity that presaged a cloudburst. The desert was still except for the hushed conversation of Ruby and Sierra. Colt was tending to the horses as Eve stood by. He wiped away the rain and stood.

“I’m going to look up ahead and see if there’s any other trails we can take. This one’s brutal,” he said to Colt.

“Knock yourself out. You find something better, I’m fine with that as long as it leads northwest.”

Lucas debated riding Tango but decided to let the stallion rest. He’d more than earned it, and Lucas could use the opportunity to stretch his legs. He shouldered his M4 sling and set off on a divergent path from the main trail, paying close attention to the terrain and any clues it could offer. After ten minutes of reconnaissance, he found a game trail that was every bit as bad as the one they were on, and was eyeing it skeptically when he heard a scream.

Colt.

Lucas broke into a run and sprinted back to the camp. Ruby was yelling instructions to Sierra, who was doing her best to calm Nugget. When Lucas arrived, Colt was lying on the ground in a ball, clutching his leg.

“What happened?” Lucas demanded.

“Rattler,” Colt managed through clenched teeth. “Got me in the calf.”

“What? How?”

“He was going to use the bathroom,” Ruby said, pointing at a stand of bushes.

Lucas moved to Colt, pulling his belt free as he approached. He wrapped it around the bartender’s knee and pulled it tight, and then handed Colt the end. “Keep pressure on that so the venom doesn’t get a chance to circulate.”

Sierra leaned into Lucas, her face white. “What are you going to do?”

“We don’t have any antivenom. Let’s get a peek at how bad it is.”

Lucas unsheathed his Bowie knife and made short work of Colt’s jean leg. He sliced up the seam to the knee with the razor-sharp blade and inspected the bite already discoloring around the two bright red punctures from the fangs.

“Looks like he got you pretty good. How big a snake?”

“Maybe three feet.”

“That’s a little bit of luck. It’s the tiny ones that are the worst.”

“Are you going to suck the venom out?” Ruby asked.

Lucas shook his head. “Nope. Doesn’t do any good and increases the infection risk. Same with cutting the punctures.”

“Then how do you treat it?”

“Afraid there isn’t much we can do.” He fingered the belt. “Even the tourniquet’s a bad idea for more than a few minutes. Don’t want you to lose the leg.”

“So we just wait for me to die?” Colt asked.

“Most rattler bites aren’t fatal,” Lucas said.

“Most?” Colt looked down at the belt. “How about this tourniquet?”

“Probably best to loosen it up some.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“You can vary the pressure, slow the amount of venom that hits your bloodstream all at once.” Lucas took another look at the bite. The discoloration was beginning to work its way up the veins toward Colt’s knee, and the area from his ankle up was almost twice the normal size. “It’s swelling pretty good.”

Colt grimaced and strained to see the wound. He regarded it without speaking for a moment and then nodded. “How long till I can ride?”

“Probably want to wait an hour or so, give your body a chance to process the venom.”

Colt looked up at the sky. “We’re losing the light.”

“An hour won’t kill us. We can ride harder later. Going to have to.” Lucas paused. “Just relax. Keep your leg below your heart, and pulse the belt every five minutes or so.”

Lucas stood and moved to Tango. Ruby followed him to the horse, glanced over at Colt, and then spoke softly to Lucas. “I don’t mean to jinx this, but doesn’t it seem like this trip is turning into a disaster?”

Lucas looked off at the endless desert. “Can’t argue that one. But if it was easy, everyone would be doing it.”

“I’m worried, Lucas.”

He nodded. “Me too, Ruby, me too.”

Chapter 9

A column of riders crested the rise. The men’s faces were tanned the color of pecans beneath their cowboy hats, and rivulets of water from the tail end of the downpour streamed from the straw brims like tiny waterfalls. Eight in all, they toted assault rifles and wore flak jackets, their jeans faded from constant sun.

The Apache patrol worked its way west, one of many chartered with scouting the territory for interlopers trying to traverse the area without paying. The men were thin, with the rawboned look of men used to living hardscrabble off the land; the patrols operated in the field for weeks at a time before returning to the reservation headquarters for supplies and rest.

This patrol had been on the road for six days, entrusted with the southwestern boundary of the Indian nation. So far the trip had been uneventful, with no sign of life other than an occasional animal or bird of prey. The storm had made for unpleasant conditions, but the men rode without complaint, accustomed to anything nature could throw their way.

The lead rider slowed as he peered through the drizzle at a depression ahead in the wet sand. He raised a pair of ancient binoculars and scanned the area, and then stopped his horse and motioned to the rest of the party to do the same.

“One of the traps collapsed,” he said, his voice low.

His second-in-command urged his horse forward until he was even with the lead rider. “Could be the storm.”

The leader nodded. “Lot of water came down. Let’s take a look.”

The men rode to the trail and paused where the trap’s corner hung in the pit below. Three of the men dismounted and made their way to the edge and stared into the hole. The leader pointed to the area near the opening.

“It wasn’t the storm. You can see tracks – faint, but they’re there. We’re lucky they haven’t washed away. This is recent. See?”

The second-in-command nodded. “Looks like at least five or six horses.”

“But there’s nothing in the trap,” one of the men said.

“Could be it was a near miss.”

The leader unslung his assault rifle and gestured at the tracks leading north. “They can’t have gotten far. Mount up. We’ll fix the trap later.”

The men obeyed, and the patrol followed the hoofprints along the trail. The drizzle increased to a cloudburst and the tracks began to vanish as the rain scrubbed them clean. By the time the downpour lessoned to a mist again, the prints were gone.

The leader stopped again at a fork in the trail and scrutinized the ground. He signaled to one of his men to dismount and inspect the area up close. The man obliged and studied the trail, walking slowly for a dozen yards up each tributary before returning with a glum expression.

“Can’t tell which they took.”

The leader looked to his second-in-command with a resigned sigh. “Take half the men and follow the right fork. I’ll take the left. Turn on your radio, but keep the volume down.”

“I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

“Do that.”

The tracker was swinging back into the saddle when the leader cocked his head, listening intently. He turned to his men.

“Did you hear that?”

The second-in-command shook his head. “No. What?”

The leader frowned. “A scream.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Which direction?”

“That way,” he said, indicating the left fork. “Ed, follow us with the horses. If they’re close by, we better do this on foot so they don’t see us coming.”

The leader lowered himself from the saddle and waited as his men followed suit. Thirty seconds later the leader began creeping along the trail, the men now in a single file procession behind him, guns in hand, faces drawn and earnest as the last of the storm blew past.

Chapter 10

Carlton seemed to know the men hanging around outside of Rowdies, who were smoking hand-rolled cigarettes that burned something other than tobacco. They looked Luis over, taking in his tattoos without comment. Carlton nodded to the nearest man.

“Busy today?”

The man shrugged. “Not much going on. Why?”

“Trading post’s slower than molasses. Thought I’d show my friend here around.”

“Friend, huh?” the man echoed, pointedly eyeing Luis. “You ain’t from around here, are you?” he asked.

“That’s right.” Luis softened his tone. “What’s that you’re smoking?”

The man laughed. “Little of this, little of that. You know.”

Luis smirked. “Yeah.”

“You want any, you know who to ask.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Carlton pushed through the swinging double doors and led Luis into a darkened room twice as deep as it was wide. A long wooden bar stretched along one side, and a collection of battered circular tables occupied the floor. The far wall boasted a dozen booths. Luis waited as his eyes adjusted to the gloom and followed Carlton to the bar.

A heavyset man with a leonine head of red hair regarded them from beneath bushy eyebrows.

“What can I get you fellers?” he asked, his voice a growl.

Carlton shrugged. “Whiskey.”

Luis took in the bottles behind the man, lined up like soldiers for inspection. “You got any tequila?”

The man nodded almost imperceptibly. “Got no-name rotgut and some El Jimador, from Mexico.”

“How much for the Jimador?”

The bartender named a figure in ammo. Luis nodded. “I’ll take a shot.”

The bartender took his time pouring the drinks into chipped glasses before setting them down in front of Luis, who slid several cartridges to him in trade. The bartender inspected the rounds and grunted affirmation, and Carlton and Luis raised their glasses.

“To the road!” Carlton said. Luis didn’t respond, too busy surveying the men in the room, some at the bar behind the young man, others seated at the tables. Carlton took a pull on his drink and coughed. Luis downed half his tequila in a swallow and didn’t blink, savoring the burn as the fiery liquid slid down his throat and warmed his stomach. He set down his glass and looked at Carlton.

“So what have we got here?”

Carlton twisted to appraise the patrons and nodded at a hulk of a man at one of the tables, his bulk barely fitting in his chair.

“That’s Quincy. He might fit the bill. Meaner than a pit viper. But he likes to drink.”

“That’s okay. No booze on the trail. Desert makes an honest man out of everyone. Let’s talk to him.”

“Sure.”

Carlton carried his drink over to the big man and pulled up a chair. Quincy peered at him with bearlike eyes, his untamed beard and scraggly long hair giving him the appearance of a vagrant, and nodded. “Carl.” He shifted his attention to Luis, and his expression clearly conveyed he didn’t like what he saw. “Who’s this?”

“Name’s Luis,” Luis said. “I’m looking for a few good men.”

Quincy’s expression didn’t change. “Don’t swing that way.”

Luis laughed and sat down across from the big man. “Didn’t figure you did.”

Carlton cut in. “He’s looking for gunmen.”

Quincy smiled, revealing rotting teeth. “That right? For what?”

“Heading north. Looking to put together some fighters.”

“Who you planning to fight?”

“Whoever we have to. We’re looking for some folks that stole some property from us.”

“Who’s us?”

Luis looked around to ensure nobody was eavesdropping. “You hear of the Crew?”

Quincy’s eyes widened. “Course. You Crew?”

“That’s right.”

“Long ways from home, aren’t you?”

“That’s why we’re hiring. We don’t want to wait around for backup.”

“How far you headed?”

“Far as necessary. You have any tracking experience?”

“Sure. You pick it up pretty quick out in the wild.” The big man frowned. “What’s the pay?”

Luis told him. Quincy drained his glass and burped before setting it down and leaning forward. “You’re shitting me.”

“No. I’m serious.”

“Who do I have to kill?”

The corner of Luis’s mouth twitched slightly. “Whoever we tell you to.”

Quincy shrugged. “Works for me.”

“I thought it might. Half in advance; half at the end of the job.”

“Done. When do we ride?”

“Soon.” Luis studied Quincy’s face, which looked like he’d been beaten with a meat hammer. “You know anyone else might be interested in the deal?”

“That pair,” Quincy said, indicating two men in the back of the bar at the last booth. “Rodriguez brothers. Got quite a rep. You heard of ’em?”

Luis shook his head. “No.”

“I have,” Carlton said. “Nothing good, either.”

“They know their way around a gun, and they ain’t shy,” Quincy said. “Just got to keep an eye on ’em, is all.” He coughed. “Spent some time in the joint. Murder’s the rumor.”

Luis nodded. “I’ll be back in a few.” Luis swiveled toward Carlton. “Stay here.”

Luis approached the men, who watched him as he neared with the dead stare of the prison yard. Both were whippet thin, with wisps of black facial hair on their upper lips and chins. The taller of them sported tattooed teardrops beneath his left eye and barbwire inked around his neck. The other had a scar running down the side of his face from his ear to his nose, the one eye sagging slightly either from the injury or the stitching.

Luis inclined his head to the men. “Got a minute?”

“Depends,” the older of the pair answered.

“Got a proposition.”

“If it don’t involve pay, good way to get yourself hurt.”

“It does.”