Breakout (Final Dawn) (12 page)

     If he could find some tracks, though, he’d settle for that. In the light of the day, he’d scout out a position to the east of the tracks, in heavy brush, so that the rising sun would be at his back in the morning. Hopefully the wind would be in his face.

     Once he had his position staked out, he’d make his way there in the darkness, an hour before sunrise, and wait.

     Frank had never hunted in the early summer before. He didn’t know how active the deer would be this time of year. They wouldn’t be rutting, and they wouldn’t be hungry from a hard winter and looking for food. It was entirely likely that they wouldn’t be moving much at all. Perhaps they found themselves a nice little meadow, tucked away in the middle of the woods, with access to a stream, and just stayed there.

     That was his Plan B. Today, before he lost his light, he’d try to find a good place to set up for a morning shot. If he didn’t find one, then the next day he’d scout some more, looking for such hideaways.

     He was lucky. Within an hour after his arrival, he’d found the tracks of a single deer. He was right. They had survived.

     Or, at least some of them had.

     The tracks were a couple of days old, and from an ani
mal of only a hundred pounds or so. A doe, probably, or maybe a yearling.

     He followed the tracks for over a mile, deeper into the woods, until he came to a small stream, washing down from the mountains above
Kerrville.

     The tracks went to the stream, where the animal had paused to drink, and then changed direction. They then went off into a thicket.

     Frank traversed the stream and examined the other side.

     Another set of tracks, a bit newer. This animal was about the same size as the first. Or maybe it was the same animal, who’d crossed the stream at another point and then came back for a drink from the other side.

     Then, after he’d reversed course and looked downstream a hundred yards, Frank found what he was looking for. A third set, no more than a day old, of a good sized buck. He guessed easily two twenty five, two fifty.

     He’d found his hunting ground.

     He looked up to see he only had an hour of daylight left. He scouted around, and found a thicket a hundred yards away to the east. It was a good place to hide, and should mask a good portion of the morning breeze.

     He headed back to his truck.

     It had taken him longer than he’d planned to find his spot, and by the time he made it back to the truck the sun had already dipped below the horizon.

     He’d set up this tent in the darkness before, but it had been awhile. And as he recalled, it hadn’t been much fun the last time. This time, after having forgotten how to do it, it would likely be even less so.

     So in the end, it was the darkness that decided his sleeping accommodations for him. He left the tent in the back of the truck and ate two of the sandwiches Eva had packed for him.

     Then he raised the steering
wheel as high as it would go to get it out of the way, pushed the bench seat back as far as he could, and tucked the seat belts into the seat.

     He started the engine before he crawled in, to warm up the cab. It was already getting chilly out.

     After ten minutes, the cab was toasty warm and he turned off the engine. He’d covered himself with his sleeping bag, and although he wasn’t too thrilled with having to sleep through the night with his knees bent, it wouldn’t be the worst position he’d ever slept in.

     And although it was cramped inside the truck, the bench seat was a lot more comfortable than the thin bedroll he’d have placed on the floor of the tent.

     He drifted off to sleep hoping that the dawn would bring him luck.

Chapter 2
3

     Frank awoke around four a.m. The heat in the cab had dissipated hours before and the cold air on his face and upper body woke him up. He started the truck mostly so he could see the clock light up on the darkened dashboard. But the warmth from the heater would be a welcome friend as well.

     While he was waiting for the engine to warm up and heat the cab, he stumbled outside to stretch his legs and take a leak.

     It was while walking around, trying to work the stiffness out of his legs and knees, that Frank decided he was too old to spend the night in a cramped position inside a too-small pickup truck. If he stayed a second night, he’d do it in the tent.

     He ate his breakfast, two more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, while letting the warmth of the truck’s heater blow over his face.

     Then, by four thirty, he was out of the truck and on his way to what he hoped would turn out to be his happy hunting grounds.

     Frank had spent an immeasurable number of hou
rs hunkered down in deer blinds or in tree stands over the years, waiting for deer to come into view. As he reflected back, it occurred to him that he enjoyed those times immensely. They’d given him a chance to ponder life. Where he’d come from, where he was going. His life in general compared to others he knew.

     And he also remembered how boring it could be sitting in a single place for hours at a time, trying not to move or make any noise. Many men couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stay still for as long as it took. They flat didn’t have the patience. These were the same men who never had any luck at fishing either. Because they gave up if the fish didn’t bite immediately.

     Frank wondered if any of the fish survived. He made a mental note to make his next trip up past Kerrville to the South Llano River. The fish had been plentiful there before the freeze. And he loved the mud cats and fresh water perch that came from those waters.

     So much so that his mouth began to water from the thought.

     Frank was like most hunters, in that he’d developed mind games to play to wile away the hours. On this particular morning, he’d made it his mission to remember every single word of the old Chicago song,
Saturday in the Park.

     Over and over again, in his mind, he heard the band sing.

    
Saturday, in the park, I think it was the fourth of July.

     Saturday, in the park, I think it was the fourth of July.

     People laughing, people passing, a man selling ice cream, singing Italian songs.

     No, wait. No, the Italian guy selling ice cream came later in the song. Or did it? He struggled with his mind, digging deeply into the recesses of his memories, trying to find the words.

     He knew they were in there. He just had to pry them out, a few at a time, and put them in the correct order.

     And all the time he was trying to find the words, his eyes never lost sight of the stream where he’d seen the tracks, a hundred yards to his west.

     It was late morning, judging from the position of the sun, when Frank finally gave up.

     The deer were out there, he knew. He wasn’t sure why they never showed. They may have moved on, out of the area. Perhaps they also drank from another stream close by.

     Or maybe they were aware of Frank’s presence.

     Deer often catch the scent of a human. And perhaps that was even more so after not smelling any humans for several years. Perhaps their noses had become so sensitive that a human scent, unfamiliar to them, might be terrifying.

     Perhaps they’d all left the area as soon as he’d first
stepped out of his truck.

     He took a good hard look at the thicket he’d turned into a hunting blind. It was enough to hide him. And he hadn’t been moving around.

     What was moving around, though, was the light breeze. It had been swirling all morning. Sometimes at his back, sometimes at his face.

     He finally decided that either the constantly changing breeze had alerted the deer of his presence, or that today just wasn’t his lucky day.

     In any event, Frank Woodard wasn’t a man who gave up easily.

     He’d merely stay another day and formulate another
game plan.

     Besides, he couldn’t go home now. He’d only made it halfway through
Saturday in the Park.
He had to stay long enough to finish it, so he could move on to
Hotel California.

    
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair.

     Warm smell of colitis, rising up through the air.

     He hummed the tune softly, almost silently, as he emerged from the thicket and searched each bank of the stream for a hundred yards in each direction
. No fresh tracks. His prey hadn’t come anywhere near here since the previous day.

     He made his way back to his pickup and ate two more sandwiches. And he took inventory of what he had left in the Coleman cooler on the pickup’s floorboard. Six more PBJs and eight bottles of water. More than enough for another full day. Although he hoped his luck would change and it wouldn’t take that long.

     Frank’s new game plan was a simple one. He’d return to the buck’s tracks by the stream and spend the afternoon tracking it. Trying to find out if he’d just moved on, or if he had a second water source.

     And maybe, just maybe, his luck would change and he’d start finding the tracks of other deer as well.

Chapter 2
4

     They saw Frank Woodard long before he approached the compound.

     Sami had been pu
lling security detail, sitting her regular four hour daily shift at the console.

     It wasn’t a
glamorous job, but it was a critical one. Sitting in a chair, watching a set of monitors. Keeping a wary eye out for intruders coming close to the compound. Watching monitors 4 and 5, which were mounted atop the wind turbine and which were high enough to offer unobstructed views of Highway 83, and also Interstate 10, three miles away.

     It was also her duty to keep a tally of the number of vehicles which traversed each of the highways. At the end of her shift, she’d log it in: twelve vehicles on Highway 83, twenty seven on Interstate 10.

     Such information seemed mundane, but it helped break the monotony.

     It was also one of her duties to monitor the ham radio that was set up on
the console. They never spoke on it. In fact, the microphone was still in the cabinet beneath the radio, never even installed.

     No, her job wasn’t to
transmit on it. But merely to listen, and to log any pertinent information she was able to glean from the conversations of others. Like where they were calling from, and how many people were left alive in their area, and whether they were friendly or hostile.

     And all information she was able to gather would be dutifully logged in for future reference.

     But on this particular afternoon on this particular day, Sami wasn’t interested in either cars on the highways, or on the radio traffic.

     Sami’s eyes were loc
ked on monitor 2, which showed a stranger in hunting gear, a rifle slung over his right shoulder, on the roadway leading to their compound.

     And he was coming toward them.

     Brad saw the same thing Sami did. They’d been dating for just over a year now. But they still hadn’t gotten over the honeymoon stage of their relationship. They still looked at each other with goo-goo eyes and still held hands wherever they went.

     And they couldn’t bear to be apart. So anytime
Sami had security duty, and Brad wasn’t busy, he was right there keeping her company.

     John, who was the chief of security and also happened to be Sami’s father, had just sat down in the dining room for an early dinner, when Brad’s voice came crackling over the radio.

     “John, this is Brad. Please come to the control center. You’re gonna want to see this.”

     “
Damnit!”