Death Comes Calling (Ranger Book 3) Page 2

  Rather, they’d work to coax food from the ground. They’d work to travel great distances to rifle through abandoned tractor trailers for anything they could eat.

  Or burn for warmth.

  On this particular day, though, they wouldn’t burn anything. Warmth was still something they had plenty of. For the winter weather, which everyone agreed would be particularly harsh, was still several months away.

  This particular day was warm and sunny, capturing the last vestiges of summer niceties.

  Karen asked, “Where are you headed, Sarah?”

  As she laced her shoes, the young woman answered, “Jess told me they’ve set up some message boards by the TTU bench, on the south side of the admin building. She said somebody left me some messages there. I thought I’d ride over there and check them out. You wanna come?”

  “Yeah, sure. But this isn’t the time of day to strike out on a seventeen mile bike ride. You’ll never make it back before dark.”

  “We won’t have to. Jess lives in Tech Terrace, just a few blocks away from campus. She said she’d put us up for the night. She also wants us to look at her puppies to see if we want one.”

  Sarah knew that would get her. For Karen was a lover of animals, and had a particular soft spot for puppies.

  “What kind?”

  “Black labs.”

  “Oh, Sarah, you’re evil. You know that?”

  Karen’s black Labrador retriever Sparky had died of old age just a few weeks before the blackout. He’d lived to the age of twelve before his body started to turn against him. His face turned gray and he developed severe arthritis.

  At first he could no longer chase the ducks at the park Karen walked him to twice a day. Diving into the cold water of the park’s playa lake helped a bit at first. Soothed the big dog’s aches. But it became harder and harder to paddle back once he got to the center of the lake and he finally gave up on catching one of his floating prey.

  He finally had to give that up too.

  In his last months Sparky, deprived of most of the things which once brought him pleasure, simply gave up.

  In his last days the only pleasure he enjoyed was lying on his rug in front of the television, Karen lying at his side and tenderly stroking him. That was where she found him that day when she returned from work. Burying him was the saddest thing she’d done in years.

  Sarah was twenty three. She looked much younger, and could have walked into any high school in town and blended right in.

  She possessed an old soul, though, finely attuned to her friends and their feelings.

  When Karen walked into work the day after Sparky died, the sadness was written on her face. Sarah instantly knew, and she walked straight to her friend and held her close. No words were spoken. They simply weren’t needed.

  Sarah also understood that replacing a beloved pet wasn’t as simple as finding another dog of the same breed. Pet lovers think it blasphemy to replace a departed animal without a period of mourning. To replace a beloved pet so cavalierly means he or she was merely a possession. Not a loved member of the family and trusted friend.

  So Sarah hadn’t broached the subject until then… several weeks after Sparky’s passing. She didn’t want to disrespect his memory by trying to rush things.

  She actually would have waited longer. But when Jess mentioned her dog Millie had a litter of pups, she gave pause.

  For this was a world in which a good dog was invaluable for personal protection.

  Especially for women living alone, as she and Karen were doing.

  It was also a world in which dogs were starting to disappear.

  She didn’t even want to think of the implications, but barking dogs were something one heard less and less frequently these days. Even when traversing the streets of strange neighborhoods on their way to and from supermarkets to look for food.

  It might have been that people were no longer able to feed their dogs and were setting them free to fend for themselves.

  But there were no dog packs running loose, further terrorizing a public which was already fearful.

  Sarah had heard the rumors that stray dogs were being shot and eaten by hunters specifically seeking them, but hoped that wasn’t the case.

  She’d also heard rumors the dogs were being killed and eaten by their owners. But she especially didn’t want to consider that possibility, for that would be an especially egregious travesty.

  In light of the fact that it was getting harder and harder to find new dogs, Sarah decided she’d better jump on Jess’s kind offer before somebody else did.

  She stood up, stretched, and announced herself ready to go.

  She donned a backpack containing a few snacks and a change of clothes as Karen appeared from another room.

  “Well, let’s go then,” Karen said. “We’re burning daylight.”

  Chapter 4

  Karen sprawled across the floor of Jess’s living room and let herself be buried in puppies.

  By the time she finally selected one to take home with her she was covered with dog slobber, and couldn’t possibly have been happier.

  She picked up her selection and announced to Jess and Sarah, “This is him. This is the new man in my life. This is my new love.”

  Jess, not knowing any better, asked, “What are you going to name him?”

  Sarah answered before Karen, beating her to the punch.

  “Sparky.”

  Jess was confused.

  “But… I thought your last dog was named Sparky.”

  “He was.”

  Sarah explained.

  “Every dog she’s ever owned has been named Sparky. And they’ve all been black labs.”

  “But… why?”

  Sarah looked to Karen to finish the story.

  “It was a habit I picked up from my dad. He loved black labs. He rescued them from the pound. He’d adopt one and let him or her live out the rest of his or her life with him. Sometimes that would be years. Sometimes it would be just a few months.

  “He did that for many years. The animal shelter knew him well, and every time they got a new black lab they’d call him up and ask him if he was ready for another Sparky.

  “I asked him once how many Sparkies he had over the course of his lifetime and he said he honestly didn’t know. Maybe twenty or more, he said. And he said every single one of them was a good dog.”

  “But why did he give them all the same name?”

  “Because he said it was easier giving them all one name than it was trying to remember a new name every time he got a new dog.

  “I told him I was glad he didn’t do the same for his children. I wouldn’t want to have the same name as my two older sisters.

  “He said he wanted to name us the same but Mom wouldn’t let him.

  “When he passed I inherited his last Sparky. She lived another five years after he died and I swear every time I looked into her face I could see my Dad’s eyes. When she finally died I couldn’t get out of bed for a week.

  “When I finally did I called the animal shelter and asked if they had a black lab. It so happened they had one they were getting ready to put down.

  “I said, ‘Don’t you dare!’ and rushed down there and grabbed him. It turned out they had a note stuck on the wall with my Dad’s name and number. There was also an annotation that this man loved black labs, and to call him any time they had one that was unclaimed.

  “They’d tried calling him but his number was disconnected. They didn’t know he’d passed away.

  “I had them cross out his name and number and replace them with my own.

  “And I started adopting them as a tribute to my father. To carry on a family tradition of sorts.”

  Her face suddenly turned sorrowful.

  “Last I heard the animal shelter was closed for good. They only had a few dogs left and stopped giving them away. They got word that people were adopting them after the blackout just so they could eat them. The staff took the last few dogs and adop
ted them themselves to save them.

  “I suppose our family tradition has come to a sad end.”

  “Maybe not,” Jess offered. “My family has always owned black labs as well. They’re the greatest dogs in the world. So friendly and loyal and playful. As long as I live I’ll have them. And any time you need one you come and find me. I’ll make sure you get the pick of the next litter.”

  “So you don’t mind watching him for me while Sarah and I go to the Texas Tech campus?”

  “No, not at all. Why are you going over to the campus?”

  “Sarah met a studly cowboy the night before the lights went out. She’s been looking for him ever since, and got word he’s been looking for her as well.”

  Jess looked to Sarah and gave her her approval.

  “Well now. I’ve been hoping something good might come from this darned blackout. Maybe if you finally fall in love and get yourself married this power outage will be all worthwhile.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “No, of course not. The blackout sucks. But it would be nice to finally see you land yourself a man so you didn’t have to spend your life alone.”

  Chapter 5

  It turned out that Steve wasn’t as smart as he thought himself to be.

  Nowhere near it, in fact.

  In his mind his plan was foolproof. He’d bribe one of the neighborhood kids into luring Major Shultz from his house and to a little old lady’s house two doors down.

  While waiting he’d go to the back yard of a vacant house directly across the street.

  He’d scamper up an old oak tree stupidly planted too close to the house and get on the roof, and he’d use the roof as a sniper’s nest to blow the major away.

  Then he’d do the same to the boy.

  He’d be back home in his basement sanctuary before anyone responded to the shooting. Probably before they even noticed the shooting, since random gunshots were occurring all day every day now.

  And were mostly just ignored.

  But from the beginning, Steve’s plans didn’t go as intended.

  He made many mistakes and miscalculations, some more serious than others.

  Probably his biggest was not doing a walk-through.

  It was almost understandable, why a rookie would want to minimize his visibility. If Shultz were tipped off there were strangers in the area, he’d at a minimum be on his toes. Worst case scenario, he’d go on his own mission to find out why furtive figures were lurking about the neighborhood.

  So it was a rookie mistake. A paramilitary operation, or even a lone wolf with more experience, would have found a way to do a dry run.

  And if Steve had put more thought into it, he would have too. Maybe made a trip out in the dead of night. To climb the tree with a weapon slung over his shoulder. To make sure it could be done.

  He’d have gone all the way to the roof, to make sure he really did have a good shot to take. And had a panoramic view of the area so he could see any threats which might arise.

  Steve was neither experienced in guerilla warfare, nor particularly intelligent.

  At least not intelligent enough to think through all the things which could go wrong.

  Another major flaw: he had no Plan B. Once his plan was set in motion, there was no going back. No do-overs. Whatever happened happened, and he’d have to ride that pony until the very end.

  Finding a boy wasn’t hard. With no TV to watch, no video games to play, kids wandered all over the neighborhood looking for something to do. Most kids didn’t even own a bicycle anymore. Couldn’t climb a tree if their lives depended on it. They lacked the ability their mothers and fathers had to while away the hours watching insects, collecting rocks. Just watching the clouds roll by and finding joy in the breeze washing across their faces.

  Modern kids were lost without their electronics. They didn’t even have footballs to toss around anymore. Didn’t have ball gloves or baseballs.

  All they had was time. Way too much of it, and most of them just wandered around aimlessly looking for something to do and not finding it.

  So finding a kid willing to set up Major Shultz was easy.

  Even recruiting him was easy. All Steve had to do was show the kid a big bag of candy.

  The kid’s mouth watered. His eyes grew as big as saucers. Although a bit suspicious, he was a fish on Steve’s hook.

  The first of Steve’s problems occurred when the kid didn’t have a watch. And it was perfectly understandable. For who in the hell used wind-up watches anymore? Virtually all the present day watches were electronic, and virtually all of them were fried when the power went out. So even if the kid had a watch before the blackout, it sure as hell wouldn’t be working now. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have a need to wear it.

  Of course Steve had a wind-up watch. In fact, he had two of them he’d picked up at Walmart the year before.

  On this particular day he hadn’t brought either of them.

  Steve told the little snot to go knock on the major’s door in fifteen minutes. The problem was the kid couldn’t tell when fifteen minutes was up without a watch.

  Steve was a genius in his own mind. He placed a pebble on the ground not far from the sun’s shadow.

  “There. Watch the pebble. When the shadow hits it, fifteen minutes are up. Then you go.”

  Steve didn’t have a clue whether the shadow would hit the pebble in fifteen minutes or fifty.

  All he knew was now he had the time he needed to get to his sniper’s nest and into position.

  He didn’t know his troubles were only beginning.

  Steve had ordered his boots from a tactical website. The site offered “all things military, new or used, big or small.”

  Oh, they looked good. They were exact replicas of Vietnam era jungle boots, worn by hundreds of thousands of American soldiers during the nation’s most unpopular war.

  Steve bought them mostly for the way they looked. They were way cool, with rubber soles, toes and heels, canvas tongues and sides. The canvas was died olive drab green, with black laces and eyelets to help him stay hidden in the dark.

  The website extolled the boots’ virtues: Low visibility at night. Comfortable, non-constrictive. Steel plated bottoms.

  Just in case Steve stumbled across any punji sticks in the middle of his suburban jungle.

  The trouble wasn’t that the boots didn’t look good.

  It was just that they were brand new. He hadn’t even tried them on before he went on his current mission.

  And like all boots which had never been broken in, never experienced a little bit of wear, they were slick and uncomfortable.

  Chapter 6

  But that wasn’t all.

  For Steve was out of shape. Woefully so.

  When he was a youngster playing G.I. Joe in his back yard, climbing trees was easy. He was nimble and skinny and swung from the trees like a chimpanzee. Overcoming the enemy was a foregone conclusion back then, for Steve won his imaginary battles.

  Every single time.

  That was make believe. This was real life.

  On this particular day, on this particular mission, reaching for the lowest branch and pulling himself up wasn’t as easy as it once was.

  Steve struggled in what would have been an almost comical display of ineptitude were the end game not so serious.

  The branches were over his head. He could barely reach them. On his fourth jump he finally wrapped the fingers of both hands around one.

  And for several seconds he just hung there.

  He hadn’t done a single pull up in years. No curls, no dead lifts, no bench presses.

  No nothing.

  His arms were limp and weak and unable to lift his own body weight.

  The boots were no help. They were made for jungle fighting, not for climbing trees. The brand-new molded plastic was pretty, but had no gripping ability. He tried his best to use the boots to get a foothold and got nowhere.

  The reality of the
situation was that Steve was no longer an agile kid climbing a tree like a monkey to rain terror upon imaginary bad guys.

  The reality was Steve was ill-prepared to carry out his mission in so many ways.

  It was by sheer willpower he was able to kick one leg high enough to wrap around the tree branch. Then, the leg taking most of his body weight, he was able to pull the rest of his body up.

  It took him several minutes to accomplish something which should have taken seconds.

  When he finally made it onto the roof he was exhausted and covered in sweat.

  Still, he didn’t have a lot of time left to get into position. He could always catch his breath later.

  As he traversed the asphalt shingles he cursed, finding the moving difficult. The slick boots gave him little traction, and the pitch of the roof was greater than he’d imagined it would be.

  He almost lost his footing a couple of times; almost slid down the roof and into the back yard of the vacant home.

  Still, with some effort, he made it. And just as he settled into his shooting position, hoping to relax and catch his breath before show time, he saw the snot-nosed little kid walking up the steps of Major Shultz’s house and start banging on the door.

  “Damn you, little bastard!”

  There was no way the kid waited long enough for the sun’s shadow to encompass the pebble. He got antsy and wanted his candy and left early. Left long before Steve had a chance to get to his sniper’s nest and set up.

  After all the mistakes and miscalculations Steve himself had made, he was cursing the kid for being anxious.

  It didn’t matter, he finally decided. In just a couple of minutes he’d blow away the Texas Ranger and ensure the safekeeping of his secret.

  It would be a pleasurable bonus to be able to shoot the kid who almost ruined everything for him.

  Maybe he’d shoot the damn kid twice for good measure.

  Muscles, when not utilized for years and then suddenly called upon to perform a difficult task, tend to tremble a bit during their recovery period.

  Steve’s arms and hands were weak and twitching. He tried to relax but his fingers wouldn’t stop trembling.