The Quest: Countdown to Armageddon: Book 6 Read online

  By working together, the twenty two surviving residents of Baker Street were able to grow plenty of food to sustain everyone, and to trade for clothing and medication and other essentials from bands of traveling merchants.

  “Why trade with merchants?” Tom asked. “Why not just scavenge for goods yourself?”

  “Well, sometimes we do. I mean, it all comes from the same place. Sometimes Tony and a couple of the guys put backpacks on and ride their bicycles up and down the highways and root through the abandoned trucks for goods, just like the merchants do.

  “And sometimes they bring back some good stuff. But as time goes by, more and more of the trucks they find have been picked clean. The only things that are left are the things nobody has any use for. Cases of paper clips and pallets of kitty litter and that kind of stuff.

  “The traveling merchants, on the other hand, have developed a network of sorts. They hire teenagers and young men with lots of stamina, who travel farther to the trucks that haven’t been picked clean yet. Some of them have pack horses now, and they’ll go on a two or three day ride, and then come back with eight or ten pack horses loaded down with anything and everything.”

  Sara asked, “What they’re doing is technically stealing. Does anybody have any heartburn with that?”

  “Not since the proclamation.”

  “What proclamation?”

  “I guess you guys were so isolated up there in Kerrville you never heard about it. About a year or so ago the United States Congress passed a law that declared anything abandoned since the blackout was now community property and free for the taking. The same applied for businesses like supermarkets and department stores that had closed when the blackout occurred and still had stuff on their shelves.”

  Tom scoffed.

  “Well, it was darn nice of Congress to legalize what the people were already doing anyway.”

  “Right. And people would have kept on doing it even if Congress hadn’t passed the law. They essentially made it legal to loot, as long as you didn’t hurt anybody doing it.”

  Sara was confused.

  “And that made things better how, exactly?”

  “Well, in several ways, actually. For the police, it freed them up from having to arrest everyone they saw leaving a deserted supermarket with a can of soup. That allowed them more time to work real crimes, like murders and assaults and rapes and such.

  “And crimes against people actually went down tremendously. People stopped stealing from each other to a large degree.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Well, put yourself in the marauder’s shoes. He could break into somebody’s house and hold them at gunpoint while his buddies ransacked the place. And he’d run the risk of the homeowner pulling out a hidden gun and blowing them away. Or, he ran the risk of getting the stuff they were after and going outside just to get arrested by the police.

  “Or… he and his gang could just go up the street to the abandoned supermarket, or to the abandoned tractor trailer three blocks away, and take the same stuff without the danger. And if the cops showed up, they were likely just looking for their own meal.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Oh, it gets better. Congress put stipulations on things, like for example nobody was allowed to lay claim to mass quantities of stuff, unless you were permitted to do so.”

  “Permitted why?”

  “Well, say for example, you came across a truck full of flour that was once destined for a bakery. Pallets and pallets of fifty pound bags. That would be way too much for any single person, or any single family, to use.

  “But if the people of Baker Street got together and went to City Hall, they could say they had a plan to open up a small bakery in one of the houses here, and would bake bread until the flour ran out. Then they’d trade the bread to other residents of the city in exchange for something they were making or growing.

  “In that case, City Hall would evaluate the request, and if they deemed it was for the public good they would grant it. And we would set up our bakery and bake our bread and trade it for other goods and services.

  “In that way, the law has encouraged small businesses to take root. We still don’t have a dollar yet, but they say that trade is the first step in reestablishing the economy.

  “And in the meantime, nobody starves. Even those who live too far away to scavenge themselves from the trucks and stores can barter for goods from the traveling merchants, as long as they have something to trade.”

  “Okay. Something to trade like what?”

  “Well, in our case, we grow four times the amount of corn we need in a given year. Word has gotten around that we have extra corn to trade, so when the traveling merchants come around, we look at the goods they have and barter with them.

  “They all take gold or silver or gold coins, of course. That’s their bread and butter and why they’re in business to begin with. But say we have no precious metals to give them. They’ll still deal with us for something we have that others may be looking for.

  “So, maybe they have some winter coats, and a couple of our people are looking for some. We’ll barter with them. We’ll say we have no gold or silver, but we can trade fifty ears of sweet corn for the coats. The merchants know that on another street, where they haven’t been able to raise corn as well as we have, they might actually have some old silver coins they can trade for the corn. So they’ll give us the coats for the corn, and then they’ll go back to the other street and sell our corn for the coins.”

  “That’s actually a pretty good idea,” Tom observed. “Probably the only good idea the United States Congress ever had.”

  Scarlett laughed.

  “I’ve heard that a lot. I guess it was inevitable, that eventually they’d stop thinking of themselves and do something good for the country.”

  “Yeah. It’s just a damn shame it took a worldwide blackout to make it happen.”

  Sara asked, “So, is that why you grow so many different crops? So you have extra to trade?”

  “Yes. But that’s only part of it. We also have a couple of businesses set up. Tony’s got his bicycle shop, and Jessika and I have our sewing shop. Word has gotten around this part of town that anyone needing bicycles or alterations can come by Baker Street to barter for our services.

  “Tony used to repair bicycles as a hobby, and he can basically put a bicycle together using a bunch of different parts.

  “So right after they made the proclamation, he commandeered one of the abandoned houses we were getting ready to tear down and claimed it. He put a big sign out in front of it that said, Tony’s Bicycle Shop.”

  “I saw that when Scott brought me by for the barbeque,” Sara said. “I was going to ask Tony about it, but he wouldn’t stop talking about how pretty my eyes were.”

  Scarlett laughed.

  “That’s our Tony. The only thing that interests him more than bicycles is trying to get into everybody’s pants.”

  “Scott told me he’s particularly bad after he’s been drinking.”

  “Yep. After he’s been into the whisky you want to steer clear of him. Sober, he’s a great guy and a good friend.

  “Anyway, after he claimed the house as his bike shop, he petitioned the city for a permit to build and trade bicycles for other goods. They gave him what they call a ‘rolling permit’ which allows him to go around and search abandoned houses for old bicycles and bicycle parts, and he collects them and brings them back here.

  “He refurbishes them and trades them for stuff we need, like shoes and clothes and medicine and ammunition. Sometimes he trades with the traveling merchants, and sometimes with people from other neighborhoods. Word has gotten around that anyone in southwest San Antonio who needs a reliable bicycle should come to Baker Street and ask for Tony.

  “And Jessika and I are doing the same thing with our clothing repair and alterations business.”

  “How so?”

  “Jessika had an old Singer sewing machine her grand
mother left her. It was a real antique, and Jessika never used it before the blackout.

  “But she’d grown up watching her grandmother use it, and she figured out how. It operates with a foot crank, so you don’t need electricity.

  “Anyway, she taught me how to use it, so we got a permit to raid the fabric stores. All the department stores had been cleaned out of clothing by that time, but nobody took the bolts of fabric because there wasn’t any way to do anything with it.”

  Sara finished the thought.

  “Unless you had an old Singer sewing machine.”

  “Exactly. Word got around that we could repair torn clothing for bartered goods, or even make some clothing from scratch.”

  Tom, being a man and not knowing the value of such skills, asked, “But why would someone barter to repair a shirt when they could just barter with a traveling merchant for a new shirt off the back of a truck?”

  “Well, they could. But if they had limited bargaining power, or not much to trade, they might want to save their own goods for something more important than a new shirt. They might just have their shirt patched and tolerate it a little bit longer so they could barter their own goods for food, or medicine, or ammunition.”

  Sara’s face took on a mischievous tone.

  She said to Tom, “You know, Tom, it’s like when you were a boy growing up back in the great depression. Your parents might have had a few pennies and they could have bought a sack of potatoes to feed your family for a couple of days. Or they could have bought you a new pair of those blue denim coveralls you seem to like so much.

  “Which one do you think they’d have chosen?”

  Tom started to say something in retaliation, but Sara smiled so sweetly he decided to let it go. Instead he just smiled and said “I wasn’t born until the 1950s.”

  “Was that before or after the great depression?”

  “After.”

  “Okay. World War I then.”

  “Pardon me, little smart aleck. I had you confused with someone who wanted to be my deputy.”

  Tom had her and they both knew it. Sara wanted to be a sheriff’s deputy so much she constantly begged him for the job.

  So she surrendered.

  “Tom, have I told you lately how really young you look? Oh, and handsome, too.”

  “That’s much better. Go on…”

  Scarlett laughed out loud and said, “I hate to interrupt this little lovefest, but there’s Rhett. It looks like he’s ready to take us to see Hannah and John.”

  -15-

  Rhett turned toward Tom, who was sitting in the front passenger seat of Rhett’s patrol car.

  “Tom, you’re a sheriff. Have you ever heard of Frank Woodard?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’m only the sheriff of Kerr County because no one else wanted the job.”

  Sara interjected from the back seat, “Don’t let him get away with being modest, Rhett. They asked him to be sheriff because he singlehandedly killed the whole infamous Garza gang. Then he put their bodies on display on the outskirts of town as a warning for other outlaws to stay away or meet the same fate. Just like they did in the old west days.”

  Tom said, “Well, that wasn’t exactly what happened. But back to Frank Woodard. Who is he?”

  “He used to be the best homicide detective the Bexar County Sheriff’s Office ever had. Won all kinds of awards. He had a reputation for never giving up until his case was solved and he got his man.

  “Anyway, he retired about a year before the blackout and then disappeared. He told his friends he was tired of hunting men, and wanted to spend the rest of his life hunting white tailed deer and catching large mouthed bass instead.

  “Nobody saw him after that. It turned out that he and his wife Eva sold their home, bought an RV, and spent their time driving around the United States. They made it their goal to visit every state in the union. And to catch a fish or shoot a deer in each one.

  Tom turned around and asked Scarlett, “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can ask him to get to the point, is there?”

  Scarlett smiled.

  “Nope. Rhett believes the more words, the better. Why explain something in a sentence or two when you can milk it for several paragraphs?”

  Rhett was undeterred by their badgering.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, they just finished a fishing trip in Louisiana and were on their way to Cloudcroft, New Mexico. But they stopped in San Antonio on the way to visit their son and daughter in law, and to celebrate the birth of their new grandson.

  “As luck would have it, they were in San Antonio when the blackout happened and they got stuck here with everybody else.

  “Chief Martinez and Frank were good friends and made contact after the blackout. When half of the SAPD homicide unit left town or committed suicide, and the other half died from the plague, the chief was in a bind and he knew it.

  “But the chief wouldn’t tell Frank how bad he was needed. He wouldn’t ask him to come out of retirement just because the chief was in a pickle.

  “Then, a few months later, the plague took Frank’s son, daughter-in-law and grandson. Frank was an emotional wreck. Eva met with the chief without Frank’s knowledge and told the chief that Frank’s grief was killing him. He needed something to do to occupy his time.

  “So the chief changed his mind and asked Frank to come out of retirement and work for the SAPD.

  “Frank’s had his plate pretty full, him being the only homicide detective in the whole city and all. But he’s been solving nearly all of his cases.

  “Until John Castro got shot, that is. Chief Martinez asked Frank to put all his other cases on hold for now so he can focus on John’s case.”

  Tom stated the obvious.

  “But John’s case isn’t a homicide. He survived.”

  “Yes. But just barely. And it turns out that you investigate a murder and an attempted murder exactly the same way. At least according to Frank Woodard. He said the evidence doesn’t change just because nobody died.”

  “Well, I’m glad he’s on the case. Does he have any leads?”

  “Not that he’s sharing. At least not with me. And what’s odd is that the chief isn’t talking either.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean much. In my experience police chiefs are generally men who don’t talk about active investigations.”

  “Oh, not this chief. Not normally, anyway. Chief Martinez is very highly regarded among the men on the force, partly because he treats us as equals. He always says that he has no secrets, and if we have a question, all we have to do is ask.

  “But every time we ask him how the investigation is going, he gets a sour look on his face and says he can’t talk about it.

  “Rumors are flying around the department that a cop did it.”

  Sara’s jaw dropped.

  “A cop? Really? Why do they think that?”

  “Remember, Sara, it’s only a rumor. Rumors fly pretty fast around here. Especially since the chief isn’t sharing any information and we have to jump to our own conclusions.”

  -16-

  Robbie Benton was in turmoil. To say that things hadn’t gone according to plan would have been a terrible understatement.

  By now, nine days after John Castro was shot, he should be at the Castro house every evening, consoling sweet Hannah and her daughters. Telling them everything would be alright. That everything happens for a reason. That God Himself needed John more than they did.

  By now, nine days after John bled to death in that dusty field of flowers, Robbie was supposed to have solved the case. He was supposed to have spent days questioning anyone and everyone who might possibly have been close enough to hear the gunshots.

  And he’d have found the killer, too.

  The killer would have been a drifter. Ragged and unkempt and covered with tattoos.

  Prison tattoos.

  They were all over the place these days. Robbie encountered them on a regular basis. Most had troubled pasts, but were behav
ing themselves now.

  But not Robbie’s patsy.

  Robbie would find one who’d been to prison. A convicted felon.

  Better yet, a convicted felon who’d done hard time for violent offenses.

  Convicted felons weren’t supposed to carry handguns in the State of Texas. Not even after the world went black and chaos reigned.

  But Robbie’s patsy would.

  Robbie’s plan was to find such a person a few days after John’s murder, wandering the streets and alleyways of southwest San Antonio looking for food or water.

  Then to stop and question the man at gunpoint, in the guise of investigating a recent string of robberies.

  And after he was satisfied that the man fit his bill, he’d gun him down at close range.

  He’d swear to Chief Martinez that the killing was justified. That the dead man pulled a gun on him. But that Robbie was just a little bit faster. His aim was just a little more true.

  Moreover, he’d claim that just before the shooting, just before the drifter died, that he’d boasted of shooting a cop down in cold blood a few days before.

  Robbie would describe in detail the little boy’s glee in the drifter’s voice. The wicked cackle, not unlike an old witch’s. The wild look in his eyes that told Robbie he was insane.

  The chief would believe him, of course. He’d have no reason not to. Robbie was, after all, a highly respected member of San Antonio’s finest and a pillar of the community. Not quite in the same league as John Castro. John had always been everybody’s idol, placed upon the highest pedestal by his adoring fans and a grateful city.

  But Robbie, as the hero who’d solved John’s murder, would take a huge step forward in taking John’s place on that highest of pedestals.

  Especially since he not only solved the crime, but administered justice to the bastard who did it.

  That’s the way it was supposed to have gone down.

  But Robbie had screwed up from the beginning. And he kept screwing up.

  By the end of the day of John’s shooting, Robbie was supposed to be at Hannah’s house, consoling her for the husband she’d lost.