“You look like you’re in pretty good shape,” he said finally. “That Travis guy was no joke, but you put him down with no problem. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say you probably know how to handle yourself. You any good with that carbine?”
“I’m not terrible with it.”
“Had to kill any infected yet?”
“A few.”
“So you know about the headshot rule?”
“Damn near learned the hard way.”
He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, me too. Listen, we’re short-handed here. We have a big job ahead of us, and not enough people to get it done. I need all the help I can get. You follow?”
“I’m not interested in joining the Army.”
“I’m not asking you to. I need people who can fight, and who can keep their head in a bad situation. What you just dealt with in there, most people wouldn’t have had the nerve to do what you did. I could use a guy like you, assuming you can follow instructions.”
“And what are you offering in return?”
“Safe passage to Colorado. As safe as I can make it, anyway. Think about it, man. What are you gonna do out here? You think you can survive in this place long term? Hell, most of it’s burned to the ground. Things are better up north. And you’re not going to find a faster, better way to get there than this convoy.”
I thought about it a moment and realized he had a point. But I had more than just myself to think about. “I have to admit, you make a good sales pitch,” I said. “But there are other people in my group.”
“More than just your buddy up there in the hills?”
I nodded. “My family.”
“Can any of them fight?”
“Some.”
He looked at me more closely, but I kept my face blank. When he realized I was not giving anything else away, he said, “Like I told you. I need all the help I can get. You can bring them along.”
“I’ll have to talk to them about it. Might take a while.”
“We leave in an hour. Sorry, but orders are orders.”
“Do what you have to do. If they decide to come along, we’ll catch up. What route are you taking?”
He took out a map and showed me. I committed it to memory, and then offered him my hand. “No promises, Captain, but you very well might be seeing me again. If you do, I’ll have company.”
He shook my hand. “Either way, it was nice to meet you, kid.”
“Likewise.”
*****
“I didn’t recognize any of them,” Mike said.
We had gathered in a circle back at the vehicles, all except for Lauren. She elected to stay in Dad’s truck with the engine running and the AC cranked as high as it would go. Tyrel had regained consciousness and stood across from me, one side supported by a makeshift crutch, the other by Lola. His eyes were still somewhat glassy from the pain meds, but at least he was on his feet. Lance, meanwhile, leaned against the fender of my father’s truck, arms crossed over his chest, keeping his distance from the conversation.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Blake said. “46 is a long highway. There were thousands of troops when we left.”
“But from what that captain was saying, not many survived,” Tyrel said. “How many were in that convoy, do you think?”
I shook my head. “Maybe a hundred or so.”
“Jesus,” Dad muttered, wiping a hand across his face. “I’m not happy about what they did to Tyrel, but I didn’t wish them dead.”
“None of us did,” Mike said. “But we can’t change what happened. What’s important right now is what we decide going forward.”
“Are you sure they’re not the same troops we ran into on Highway 46?” Tyrel asked.
“As sure as I can be,” Mike replied. “Looked to me like they came from a different section of the highway than the one we tried to cross.”
“Either way,” Dad said, “the only one of us they would recognize is Tyrel, and even that’s pretty damn unlikely.”
Tyrel grimaced. “There’s also the matter of my leg.”
“We can explain that away,” Dad said. “Tell them someone tried to rob us and we fought them off, something like that.”
“Works for me.”
“Then it’s decided?” Mike asked. “Are we really going to do this?”
Dad searched all of our faces. “Any objections?”
No one spoke. He turned around and looked at Lance. “What do you say? You in?”
Lance shrugged. “Got nothing else going at the moment. Might as well.”
“Caleb, you ride up front with Mike,” Dad said. “When we catch up with the convoy, I’ll let you do the talking.”
THIRTY-ONE
We caught up with them on 281 just outside of Blanco.
Captain Morgan (to this day I can’t say it without a smile) had stopped the convoy a mile outside of town and sent scouts ahead in Humvees. When a lookout saw us approaching, Morgan and one of his aides drove back to meet us.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Hicks,” he said, stepping out of his vehicle. His aide remained behind, no doubt monitoring radio traffic. The captain eyed our Humvees skeptically. “Where the hell did you find those?”
“You might say they were a gift.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Come meet everyone. My father can explain.”
We did the round of introductions. Morgan took in the other men’s appearance—the weapons, the tactical gear, the familiar, confident way in which my father and his friends handled themselves—and I saw an acquisitive gleam in the Army officer’s eyes. When he shifted his attention to Sophia, Lola, and Lauren, the gleam faded, replaced by apprehension.
“Nice to meet all of you,” he said. “Do you mind telling me where you came across those?” He pointed to the Humvees.
My father spoke up. “These three and I used to work for a civilian-owned survival and firearms training facility, Black Wolf Tactical. Everything you see here except the trucks and the Jeep were owned by the company.”
“Even the machine guns?”
Dad nodded. “Yep.”
“Aren’t those illegal for civilians to own?”
“In most cases, yes. Unless you have the proper licenses, which BWT did.”
“I don’t suppose you have any documentation to back that up, do you?”
“I do.” Dad held a hand toward the lead Humvee. “Would you like me to show you?”
“Lead the way.”
I watched my father remove a cardboard box from the back of a Humvee, open it, and neatly arrange a number of files on the back seat. He pointed to each one, explaining what it contained. Morgan picked up a couple of them, half-heartedly sifted through the papers within, then shook his head and dropped them back in the box.
“Good enough for me,” he said. “Honestly, at this point, I wouldn’t care if you stole this stuff as long as you’re willing to help me.”
“What help do you need?” Dad asked.
“You look ex-military to me. These other guys too. Am I right?”
The four men took turns explaining their credentials. My father disclosed he had been a Green Beret, but stopped short of mentioning his time in Delta Force. It seemed odd to me, but I shrugged it off, figuring the old man had his reasons.
Lance revealed he had served four years in the Marines, then spent the last twenty years in law enforcement, twelve of those with the Houston Police Department’s SWAT team. Figuring he was eighteen when he joined the Marines, I guessed his age at forty-two. He was in good shape, but looked older than that.
With each proffered resume, the acquisitive light in Morgan’s eyes grew steadily brighter. He expressed concern about Tyrel’s wounded leg, but seemed appeased when Tyrel assured him he could still man a machine gun or provide long-range fire support with his .338 Lapua magnum. Finally, Morgan returned his attention to me.
“Well, you make a little more sense now. Did you grow up around these guys?”