Walking in the Rain (Book 4): Dark Sky Thunder (11 page)

After we made sure all of the dead men were really, thoroughly dead, I started gathering up the dropped weapons and pocket litter from the half dozen dead men. Don’t judge. This was not me being strictly in salvage mode. I was wearing rubber kitchen gloves, and Dad wanted to know if we could figure out anything about this group, since they all were impolite enough to get killed and leave us without any prisoners to interrogate. All six men were Hispanic, at least by their features, and looked sun hardened and far too skinny.

I didn’t find any hand-drawn map to their secret camp, but I did discover all six men were armed with identical M-16 rifles. Old and service worn, but a quick check showed the barrels were dirty but free of pitting. The side plates on the rifles were scratched and difficult to read in the late afternoon sun, but I thought I could make out one phrase:
Ejército Mexicano
.

“What are you doing?”

Scott was ambling over in my direction while my father and Mike were engaged in an animated discussion with Mr. Williams involving property rights, transportation issues, and the proper use of dead bodies in a compost pile. Or at least, those are the parts I overheard. Scott and Uncle Billy were providing over watch while the wrangle continued.

“Just trying to figure out where these guys are from. They look Hispanic to you? Or am I just profiling? I can’t always tell.”

“Are you kidding?” Scott asked, his voice a little high and uncertain.

“What’s wrong, man?” I asked, rising from a crouch to stand next to the older teen.

“I just smoked these guys and nobody is saying anything about it. I mean, I’ve had to shoot people before, but man, this is just like another day at the office for you guys.”

“That’s because we’ve let ourselves get hardened to it,” came my father’s voice over my shoulder. “Mike and I saw plenty of scenes like this in places I can’t even pronounce, and you just get used to it. Not exactly getting comfortable with the killing, Scott, but you can’t let the things you see get to you.”

“You, too, Luke?” Scott asked. HE didn’t sound conflicted or all torn up about gunning these assholes down, just kind of confused by our reaction, and maybe his own.

I shrugged. “Sorry, buddy. I see these guys and all I can think is, ‘oh, well, this is just another Tuesday.’ If these were innocent people, or God forbid any of our folks, we wouldn’t be so casual about it, but yeah. They tried to kill our neighbor and lost.”

“That’s about the size of it,” my father continued. “And Gaddis is finally coming around to see reason. You checked their trucks yet? And by the way, it is Wednesday, Lucas my boy.”

“No sir. Just finished up processing the bodies. Looks like Mexican Army gear. At least, that’s what I get from the markers on the rifles.” I replied, and held out the rifle in my hands to Dad.

He gave it a quick once-over and returned it to me, a grim frown on his face. “Yeah, Mexican Army. Older stock, too. They mainly used the G3 for the last twenty years. So this is either from a real Mexican military unit or some of the stuff the cartels have been moving into the country for years.”

“Ah, what? I thought we were the ones supplying the guns to Mexico, not the other way around,” Scott blurted.

My dad nodded, shifting into lecture mode just that fast.

“To some extent, yes. But you have to understand, contrary to what the know-nothing liberals say, truly automatic weapons—not semi-automatic, but truly fully automatic—are very rarely found in civilian hands in this country. You can get them, if you live in the right state, jump through a ton of hoops, and pay a stupid amount of money. Most folks who want the experience of firing a fully automatic weapon have to go to a special range and rent something owned by the range. Otherwise, there are some Class IIIs that deal in fully automatic weapons, mostly handling sales to police departments, but that’s another headache altogether.”

“Really? But I heard on the news all the time about these whack jobs who went into schools and movie theatres with machine guns. So that’s not true?” Scott asked, his thoughts of the recently dead suddenly veering onto another topic.

“Really. Semi-automatic in almost every case. Everyone I can think of, anyway. But, in places like Mexico, which has some of the most restrictive firearms laws on the books, you can buy fully automatic rifles and submachine guns for the equivalent of a few hundred bucks. If you know the right people, obviously.

“And I read somewhere that in El Salvador, you could buy an M-16 like these for two hundred bucks and grenades for two dollars. Now, I don’t know if that is true, and I’ve never met anybody who did it, but I have read several articles claiming this.”

“So are they Mexican Army, drug cartel members, or just guys who bought the guns out of the back of a truck?”

Now Dad was forced to give a shrug. “Unless Lucas has found something, I have no idea.”

“Nada. No wallets, and no identification of any kind. Haven’t had a chance to check the trucks yet.”

My father looked at the pile of bodies and squatted down, drawing a knife from his belt as he moved. I watched, fascinated, as Dad used the tip of the blade to slice away at the bloody shirt of the corpse on top, popping the buttons off as he ran the knife down the fabric to reveal the man’s stained wife-beater tee shirt. Another swipe with the long knife blade sliced the fabric and exposed the mass of colorful tattoos, starting just above the man’s collarbone and covering the bare chest from one side to the other.

Most of the artwork turned out to be words and phrases in Spanish. I’d taken the obligatory two years of Spanish my freshman and sophomore years and recognized a few of the words highlighted in red, though not from any classroom. No, these weren’t terms we learned in school. Instead, I’d seen them spray painted on the sides of buildings back when we lived in California and my father was stationed at Camp Pendleton.

“Mexican gang of some sort, but I don’t know which one,” Dad pronounced. I mentioned having seen them before, and I swear my father grimaced.

“Yes, I guess living in California was an education of sorts,” he conceded, and stood back up. Even though he’d not bloodied the knife, he still took a second to wipe the blade on the dead man’s wrinkled shirt. As if merely touching this cooling corpse made it somehow dirty.

I looked at my dad again, suddenly processing something else he’d said. “Wait. It is Wednesday? Seriously? Crap. Amy’s birthday is Friday. Dad, we need to talk.”

So, standing over the dead men lying in the front drive of our neighbor’s house, I launched into what seemed the most important conversation of my young life. I needed something from my father and I was determined to get it, no matter the cost.

As we spoke, Mr. Williams walked over; once he heard the gist of the conversation, the old man couldn’t stop grinning.

Buddy and Melba Farrell seemed very pleased to see my folks, but I got several curious glances directed my way when they thought I wasn’t looking. Once we cleared the security watch at the front gate, made up of Farrell boys and in-laws, Buddy met us at the door and ushered us into the kitchen for a sit-down and a chance to talk.

Two more of the Farrell boys drifted in and took up position against the wall leading to the living room, and I noticed both boys were armed. “Boys” meaning young men in their twenties and thirties, anyway, and both wore holstered pistols at their hips. Fine with me; I was glad to see they were taking their safety so seriously. Dad and I both wore our pistols in open-carry holsters. In fact, these were our competition rigs for faster draw.

Finally, after the tea was poured and the small talk evaporated, Buddy just couldn’t resist. He was patient, as only a farmer can be, but he was never one to mince words. “Son, how in hell did you get home?”

So there was the question. I managed a tight grin. “Well, sir, mostly I walked.”

“You weren’t walking when you rolled in the other day,” he countered.

I nodded. “Yes, sir. I said mostly. I picked up some transport and a few friends along the way. And I’m glad to see Lee made it home, too.” I said, giving the oldest of the Farrell sons a little wave where he stood holding up part of the wall.

Now, the Farrells were longtime friends of my family, from Grandpa on to Uncle Billy and my dad, both before and after he joined the Marines. Former high school sweethearts, the senior Farrells were both in their late 50s and Buddy could still haul square bales with the best of the young ’uns. He was short and stocky and not as heavily muscled up as Mr. Gaddis, but he had an iron-like grip. All those years hand milking when he was a boy, he claimed.

“Your Grandpa would be mighty proud to see you made it home, son,” Mrs. Farrell chimed in, and I thought I saw a tear form in her eye as she finally spoke.

“You say you walked? From Chicago?” Mr. Farrell interjected, and I saw Lee stand up straighter at that question. After a beat, he pushed off the wall and ambled over to the four of us seated at the table.

“That must be some tale, little big man,” he said, and I didn’t take offense. Around hay baling time, all the neighbors and their kids, young and old, pitched in to help. Grandpa had a round baler that reduced most of the labor to driving tractors, but Mr. Farrell did some square bales for his customers, and that was a whole different matter.

I’d helped out one summer and worked with Lee some then, tossing bales up on the trailer while Mrs. Farrell pulled the lowboy trailer we were using. Back then, Lee had been a physical twin of his father, with the hawk nose, and a squat, muscular build that only hard work could bestow. These weren’t gym muscles. At the time, Lee couldn’t believe I was able to pick up and toss the bales as easily as a grown man when I was fourteen, and he kept telling me to “slow down, kid.”

And he was right. Hauling hay is a marathon, not a sprint. I couldn’t believe how much I hurt after that first day was finally done, but in the process, I felt like I’d earned some respect from these grown men. That helped some with the aches the next morning when I got up and went to do it again.

Now, Lee was a gaunt, hardened shadow of his former size, seemingly whittled down to bone and sinew from his travels. Whatever his trip entailed, it did not include a meal plan. Dressed in his familiar jeans and a Guns N Roses tee shirt, Lee appeared to be swimming in the old clothes. Up close, I could see his shriveled biceps encircled by a broad tribal band tattoo.

“It had its moments,” I agreed, and something must have shown on my face, for all three of the Farrells at the table flinched back.

“That’s part of what we wanted to talk to you about,” my dad said, “as well as discuss some thoughts on mutual support. We’d considered it before, Buddy. But back then, you were still waiting on your boys, and frankly, we were just so shorthanded, we could barely cover the home place.”

Buddy allowed how this was true, but we was still looking at me curiously. Eventually he spoke up, sharing what was on his mind. “Sorry, Lucas, it is just…Lee shared some of what he saw on the way here. Just parts, I’m sure. But enough that I’ve had nightmares just thinking about it. Sam, you’ve got that big radio; aren’t you getting any news besides that damned FEMA message?”

My dad nodded. “Yeah, and that’s also part of what I wanted to talk to you about. A lot of stuff is just not getting talked about on the radios, and some folks I listened to early on aren’t transmitting anymore. Whether that’s because they got overrun or just lost their power supply, I can’t tell you.”

I looked at Lee and figured he and I should get together sometime and compare notes. Not this time, though.

“Mr. Ferrell, you know from whatever Lee has shared that getting around out there isn’t easy. I’ve got my own share of nightmares and then some. Still, I met some real good folks, too, and some of them are here with me. Others stayed behind, but helped me on my way.”

“And you picked up some useful tools along the way, it seems. I heard you guys come tearing out of the drive in that big Hummer yesterday. That was a good thing y’all did,” Mr. Farrell said, directing his last words to my father. Obviously, Dad was keeping the neighbors, at least some of them, updated via radio on the happenings at the ranch.

“That was all Billy sniping and Luke’s friend Scott on the 240B,” my dad replied and explained when he caught the look on the civilian faces. “Medium machine gun, mounted on the Humvee. I think it scared the hell out of Gaddis though.”

“How in the heck did you get a machine gun, Lucas?” Mrs. Farrell asked, her faced creased at the thought.

“That’s not all he brought home,” my father said slyly, trying to lighten the mood. “Done went and found himself a fiancé along the way. Pretty little thing, and smart too.”

“Braver than anybody else I ever met,” I added with pride, and saw my mother’s eyes narrow at my words.

“But still, how did you get your hands on a machine gun, Lucas?” Mr. Farrell persisted. “They don’t just carry those at Cabela’s, you know.”

“Luke’s got a way of salvaging the darnest things, Buddy. He shows up with two running armored vehicles, nine new friends, and a huge load of weapons and ammo,” Dad said.

“And let’s not forget the fiancé,” Buddy added with a snicker that, again, got a reaction from my mother.
I guess Dad hasn’t had a chance to have that conversation yet,
I mused.

“Buddy,” my mother replied with a long-suffering sigh. “Amy is a sweet girl. But she is too young. They both are. This is their future, and both of them are too young to be making these kinds of commitments.”

The pause that followed lasted long enough to make everyone uncomfortable. For me, I just felt my temper rise. Then I clamped down and tried to maintain my cool. Not the time, Mom, I thought with a lingering touch of heat.

“What, did you hit an armory?” Lee said, breaking the silence with a forced grin, but the grin fell off his face when he read my expression.

“No, not really. They don’t keep much in the way of weapons there, and no ammunition stored at armories anymore. You’d have to locate a distribution point for that. Most of what I brought back with me was salvage, or stuff I picked up after…” I stopped, not wanting to get into that right then, and went another way. “The Humvee and the machine gun, well, let’s call those loaners for right now. How I got them is part of the story I’ve got to tell, but they are most definitely not stolen.”