One of Our Own: Final Dawn: Book 11 Read online

  The truck rolled to a stop in the fast lane of I-10.

  John cursed a blue streak.

  Justin became Captain Obvious: “Hey, the truck died.”

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “What do we do now?”

  John checked his mirrors and didn’t see any other traffic coming up behind them. He also saw no traffic ahead of them. Of course, since most vehicles no longer had working headlights or their drivers chose not to use them, he wouldn’t have been able to see the lights anyway.

  Most vehicles halogen lights burned out the first time they were used.

  No one knew why, exactly, although theories were abundant.

  The most common view was that the seven year freeze either weakened the glass or caused microscopic cracks where the glass bulb attached to the copper housing.

  When the bulb suddenly heated to its operating temperature after such a long period the gas simply escaped, causing the bulb to stop burning.

  It was as good a theory as any.

  New bulbs still on the shelf in truck stops and auto supply stores tended to work better, and some conscientious drivers switched to them.

  Most drivers didn’t even bother. For even when driving in the middle of the day, severe brownout conditions reduced visibility to about a hundred feet or so, whether the vehicle had working headlights or not.

  As for night driving? Nobody was crazy enough to even try that.

  John considered his brother’s question, then said, “We’re getting the hell out of here, that’s for sure.”

  “Why? Why don’t we just wait for somebody to come by and then ask them for a ride?”

  “Because, dufus, we seem to be the only ones on the highway today. We haven’t passed anybody else since we left Welfare. Nobody’s passed us either.”

  “But… it’s cold out there.”

  “I know. And in about fifteen minutes it’ll be just as cold in here. We’re going to get out there and try to find a working tractor. In the meantime, we’ll be able to hear an approaching vehicle in time to get in front of it and flag it down. If we sat here in the truck we wouldn’t see it in time to jump out before it went past us.”

  John wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist.

  In fact, he couldn’t spell either word.

  But he was by far the smartest of his clan, and even applied logic to his decisions occasionally.

  When Saris 7 hit the earth some twelve years before and temperatures were dropping fast, there were tens of thousands of tractor trailer combinations scattered all over the United States.

  The more dedicated truckers were trying to do the right thing. They were trying to fulfill their contractual obligations by getting their loads to where they were supposed to be.

  Most truckers, though, realized that their employers would be out of business within days. In their view, they owed their allegiance not to their bosses, but to their friends and families.

  It was therefore much more important for them to get back home, to wherever home was, than to deliver their load to its destination.

  The shoulders of every highway in America were littered with abandoned trailers, their drivers leaving them there and taking their tractors to bobtail it back home.

  But that wasn’t always the case.

  The future was uncertain. The earth had never gone through this before. At least not while man roamed the earth.

  There were some who thought the darkened skies and freezing temperatures would be but an inconvenience. That once people got over the shock, the world would more or less get back to normal again.

  People would have to start wearing thermal underwear and heavy coats to the beach in July. But other than that, things would still operate as they always did.

  Some drivers hedged their bets just in case.

  Instead of dropping their trailers and stealing their company’s tractor, they abandoned the whole rig. They used their CB radio to coordinate a ride from another trucker who was headed home in the same general direction.

  Their logic was simple. If there came a day when the drivers were held accountable for abandoning their rigs and shirking their responsibilities, they’d be less liable.

  They didn’t steal their tractors. They left them behind, still attached to their trailers. The most they could be faulted for was quitting their jobs without notice.

  So that they weren’t accused of stealing the truck’s keys, they typically left them in the ignition or on the sun visor.

  Of course, the abandoned tractors outnumbered the abandoned tractor-trailer combinations fifteen to one.

  Also of course, just finding a trailer with a tractor attached was no guarantee the keys were in it.

  Or that it would start after sitting in the same spot and gathering ten years’ worth of dust.

  In fact, the odds of that happening were pretty remote.

  But they weren’t left with a lot of options. If they stayed where they were they’d freeze to death.

  One smart thing Justin did was to search through the pickup’s toolbox for a pair of jumper cables and wrenches.

  “What the hell are you doing that for?” John asked.

  “If we find a tractor with keys and try to start it, there’s a chance the batteries are very weak but not dead. Hooking a fresh battery to the ones already in the battery box might give it just the extra juice it needs to start.”

  It made sense. He made sense.

  John was flabbergasted.

  He didn’t know his brother had it in him.

  The biggest problem with Justin’s idea, of course, was the weight of the battery. At twenty two pounds it wasn’t the heaviest thing in the world.

  But if they had to walk for several miles in numbing cold while taking turns carrying it, it would certainly feel that way.

  It was mid-afternoon. John estimated the current temperature to be about twenty five.

  Thankfully there was very little wind.

  They had several hours before the skies would darken for the night and the temperature would drop another five to ten degrees.

  Would that give them enough time to find the tractor they were looking for?

  They sure hoped so.

  Their lives, quite literally, depended on it.

  -13-

  Three hours into what could have been their very last walk, the Dwyers came across what they hoped would be their lifeboat.

  It was decidedly old school.

  A 1982 GMC cab-over. Painted a hideous green, although they couldn’t have cared less about that.

  This rig didn’t even have a sleeper.

  But that was okay too. They didn’t need a place to stretch out. They needed warmth.

  “It’s a piece of junk,” Justin said.

  “Shut up. You’ll hurt its feelings. If it works, who cares what it looks like?”

  John climbed in the driver’s seat, Justin on the passenger side.

  There were no keys in the ignition.

  Or on the visor.

  “Look around,” John commanded. Look in the door box. The map box. Look frickin' everywhere.”

  There were no keys anywhere.

  Both men felt dejected. Almost betrayed.

  John pulled a pack of Marlboro Blacks from his shirt pocket and popped one into his mouth.

  His lighter hand was shaking almost uncontrollably. He had to steady it with his other hand.

  He wasn’t the only one shivering.

  “John, I’m cold.”

  Justin was prone to complaining. Ordinarily John would have told him to shut up and be a man.

  But there was something else in John’s statement. Something odd in his voice.

  It was more than just a complaint. It was also a cry for help.

  John was the oldest of the brothers, and one who’d always felt a certain responsibility to protect the others.

  But this was beyond his capabilities.

  He couldn’t will a set of keys to suddenly appear.

&nbs
p; Or maybe he could.

  As he took a deep drag on his cigarette and pondered their next course of action, he shifted his feet.

  And felt a slight lump beneath the heel of his left boot.

  That he felt it at all was a surprise, for his feet were close to being frozen. But it was there and unmistakable.

  He placed his smoke in the ash tray and opened the door, then scrambled out of the cab. He moved so quickly he almost lost his footing and slipped to the ground.

  Justin, still clueless as to what was going on, merely watched in wonder. Had the bitter cold driven his brother mad?

  The rubber mat beneath the driver’s feet was original. John could tell because although it was worn so badly it had a couple of holes in it, John could still vaguely make out the raised GMC logo.

  He lifted it up and removed the keys, then scrambled back into the cab and pulled the door shut.

  Justin smiled but said not a word as his brother slipped the keys in the ignition and turned the key.

  He’d never driven a rig, but knew the basics. He depressed the clutch, then made sure the truck was in neutral. Checked the tractor and trailer brake knobs and made sure they were both pulled all the way up.

  Neither man was a praying sort. Neither believed in God.

  Or any other entity for that matter.

  Another man might have taken that particular moment to say a prayer.

  Not these guys.

  Instead, John muttered, “Here goes nothin’” and pushed the small silver starter button.

  Nothin’.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise.

  After all, the big Jimmy hadn’t rolled in ten years or so.

  John let his head slump against the massive steering wheel.

  Justin’s smile left his face. He didn’t say anything, but a fleeting thought crossed his mind. Maybe they should have prayed. Even though he wasn’t a believer, perhaps it couldn’t have hurt.

  He wasn’t unlike the proverbial atheist in the foxhole, suddenly converting to Christianity on the eve of a big battle.

  Because it never hurt to hedge one’s bet.

  Justin scrambled out of the cab and to the ground, then walked around to the driver’s side.

  He pried open the battery box to reveal two oversized batteries. They looked relatively new and were totally free of corrosion.

  That was a good sign, at least.

  The battery they’d brought with them was lying on the ground at his feet. So were the six-foot jumper cables.

  He, like his brother, was shivering almost uncontrollably and it took him twice as long as it should have to hook the cables first to their own battery, then to the truck’s.

  He looked up at John, watching him intently through the driver’s window.

  He nodded, and John tried the ignition again.

  A fast-paced clicking noise came from the starter solenoid. But nothing more.

  John knew that would be the case. If there had been enough juice in the batteries to start the big rig they’d have gotten something more from the truck. Hooking up to a third battery might have given the first two the little extra they needed.

  But since there was nothing there to begin with, it just wasn’t enough of a boost.

  Oh, they tried. For over an hour they tried everything they knew. Removing the terminals and scraping their posts, then reinstalling them.

  Replacing one of the in-line truck batteries with the new one.

  Justin even said his prayer.

  Nothing.

  Justin crawled back in the cab.

  “Now what?”

  “I don’t know, brother. I just don’t know.”

  -14-

  Frank Woodard was desperate to help, but wasn’t sure how.

  He’d done a lot of things in his lifetime. He’d started out his adult life as a soda jerk for Lubbock’s favorite eating establishment, the White Pig. Then he laid carpet for awhile.

  He served a stint as a United States Marine, and was a patrolman and then robbery detective with the San Antonio Police Department. Later on he was the most successful homicide detective in the history of the Bexar County Sheriff’s Department.

  Frank Woodard knew how to do stuff.

  But one thing he couldn’t do was drive an eighteen-wheeler.

  “You stay here and man the home front,” Mark suggested. We’ll have every one of our truckers out there, and with Eden’s volunteers we’ll have plenty of extra eyes. We’ll handle it. Really.”

  But there were two indisputable truths about Frank Woodard.

  One was that he was loyal to a T. He never let a friend down in his life.

  The other was that he was a stubborn old cuss.

  “Bull. Let the women stay back and handle the home front. I need to be out there looking for my friend.”

  Hannah happened to be walking by.

  She almost kept walking.

  Almost.

  But she couldn’t let such a comment go unchallenged.

  “Frank Bernard Woodard, do you know how sexist that sounds?”

  “My middle name isn’t Bernard, honey.”

  “Don’t you honey me, Frank. That certainly doesn’t help your case. And your middle name is Bernard if I say it’s Bernard. Are you implying that the women should stay here and take care of the compound because we’re not capable of going out there to help in the search?”

  Frank was at a loss. No matter what he said, it would be wrong.

  Mark knew this as well, and was careful not to say a word, lest he be dragged into the quagmire too.

  Frank thought the best thing to do was apologize. He’d have to anyway before the conversation was over. Might as well get it over with.

  “I’m sorry, Hannah. I meant no offense. It’s just that… well, I’m not used to sitting on the bench. I’m used to being in the game.”

  “And working the control center, coordinating the search efforts, isn’t being in the game?”

  She put her hands on her hips. She had him on the ropes, and they both knew it.

  “That’s not what I meant at all…”

  Hannah cut him off.

  “You think that staying behind and defending the compound from another attack isn’t being in the game?”

  “Who says there’s gonna be another attack? We’re not expecting another attack.”

  “We weren’t expecting the last one until it happened. They didn’t give us the courtesy of scheduling it ahead of time, now did they?”

  “But… but…”

  “Did they, Frank?”

  Frank sighed and gave up.

  “No, ma’am.”

  Frank thought it was ironic he was addressing a woman half his age as “ma’am.”

  So did Mark, who had to work hard to suppress a smile. He knew exactly how Frank felt, since he’d had to call Hannah “ma’am” a hundred times before.

  “I’m sorry,” Frank muttered.

  He was afraid to say anything else.

  Instead he turned and shuffled away, not unlike a dog with its tail between its legs.

  Once he was out of earshot Mark said, “You’re not gonna let him leave like that, are you? He looked like he was ready to cry.”

  “Frank? Cry? You can’t be serious.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “He’ll be fine. I’ll go find him in a little bit and wrap my arms around him and give him a big hug and he’ll be good as new.”

  “Is that all it takes?”

  She laughed out loud.

  “For Frank it is. He tells me he loves my hugs more than anything in the world. Because he says I’m all warm and soft. Especially in my ‘frontal area,’ as he calls it.”

  Mark’s jaw dropped.

  “Oh, don’t worry, honey. Frank’s a bit of a dirty old man, but he’s harmless. He’s like most men. They pretty much all like being pressed up against a woman’s boobs every once in awhile. It’s part of y’all’s caveman makeup, I think.”

 
“Should I consider him a competitor?”

  “No. You should consider him a wonderful man who is a little bit of a grouch sometimes, a little bit of a stubborn butthead sometimes, but always a great friend. He just wants to help find his friend, that’s all.”

  It was true. Frank had only known Brad for a couple of years. But they had a lot of things in common, including a love for hunting and fishing. They’d been out doing one or the other together a hundred times.

  When two men are trekking through the woods or sitting for hours at a time waiting for fish to bite, they tend to get to know each other pretty well.

  Frank knew things about Brad that no one else did.

  Including the fact that Brad, like Frank, once worked the counter at a soda shoppe. That he was once a carpet-layer’s apprentice. That he once tried to enlist in the Marine Corps, but a heart murmur prevented him from doing so.

  Frank knew that Brad was a good Christian man who’d saved himself for marriage. He was a monster flirt with strapping good looks, and everyone assumed he’d been with a lot of women. It wasn’t so. He confessed to Frank and Frank alone that he’d relied on Sami to lead the way the first time they were together.

  And that he’d been absolutely terrified.

  Everyone in the group knew he was hoping against hope that Sami had a baby girl. But only Frank knew the reason why. That Brad almost had a baby sister, but she was stillborn. He’d lived his entire life as an only child and longing for the baby sister he never got to know.

  It went the other way, too.

  When Frank’s wife Eva died in a horrific accident not long before, it wasn’t Hannah or Sarah or Sami he ran to for comfort.

  Any of them would have provided him with the “warm and soft, especially in the front” hugs he so enjoyed.

  No, it was Brad, who wasn’t even a hugger, who listened to him sob and profess his sorrow at the loss of the only woman he’d ever really loved.

  Unlike Brad, Frank had been with a lot of women before Eva. But once he met her that came to a screeching halt. He was completely devoted to her for the remainder of her life.

  As he explained it to Brad, “I knew a lot of women. But Eva was the only walking, talking angel I ever met.”

  Brad had no better friend in the world than Frank Woodard.