Castroville: Countdown to Armageddon: Book 7 (8 page)

     The apples and potatoes were long gone now, and Robbie survived on the canned goods be could find, and on staples such as trail mix and nuts, and the squirrels and rabbits that were still relatively plentiful in the expansive zoo.

     Looking back, he wished he’d filled those carts with bags of dried beans and rice. They’d have lasted much longer and required no preparation other than boiling in a pot of water.

     Robbie’s thoughts were now pretty much equally divided between fantasies of sweet Hannah and what he’d like to do to her. And thoughts of revenge against members of the SAPD, and what he’d like to do to them.

     And thoughts of a good meal.

     The night before he’d actually dreamed he was sitting across the table from Hannah in his old favorite steak house. She’d been beautiful, as always, her hair and makeup flawlessly done. Before them were steak dinners with all the trimmings. Robbie could smell the meaty aroma of his steaming ribeye, even as he basked in the beauty of his one and only true love.

     “I have a surprise for you,” he’d told sweet Hannah as he reached across the table and took her hand in his.

     She’d smiled and said, “Oh, goody. I just love surprises.”

     “Good. Close your eyes.”

     She did, of course. Because in Robbie’s dreams sweet Hannah always did what Robbie commanded of her.

     From beneath the table, Robbie pulled out the severed head of Hannah’s husband, John Castro, and placed it between their plates, a macabre centerpiece if there ever was one.

     “Okay, sweetheart. Open your eyes.”

     Instead of screaming or drawing back in horror, Hannah simply melted.

     “Oh baby… you did it. You killed him. You got him out of the way, so we can finally be together.”

     She smiled and cried tears of happiness, before looking into Robbie’s eyes and saying, “Baby, I love you so much. I’m so glad we’re finally together, as we should have been all along.”

     In Robbie’s dreams, common sense was nonsensical. Logic was illogical. The impossible was the norm.

     Because Robbie’s dreams weren’t based in reality. Robbie’s dreams came from a severely damaged and delusional mind. A mind in which Robbie could have anything he wanted, or anyone he wanted, just by wishing it so.

     It had taken quite some time, and had many contributing factors. His attraction to Hannah, his jealousy of John, the chaos the blackout had wrought. His having to spend each and every day for two long years dragging rotting and stinking corpses from residences to burn in huge pyres on city streets. His own childhood abuse, and the insecurities it left him with.

     All those things had played a hand in creating the monster that Robbie had become. He was now stark-raving mad, with no hope of redemption.

     He would live out his final days locked in a self-imposed prison. Living in an animal cage not much different than its previous tenants. Except that now they were dead. And maybe that was its own particular type of sweet freedom.

     There was no doubt in Robbie’s mind that he’d soon be dead as well. But it would be on his own terms. For if he couldn’t have Hannah for himself, there was really no good reason to go on living.

     He’d die. But he’d take John Castro with him. And anyone else who got in his way.

-13-

     Sara tossed and turned, although she recognized the need of getting a good nap before the pair struck back out again in the evening hours.

     Ranger Randy, more accustomed to the type of assault the pair was preparing for, slept like a baby.

     Sara finally woke him up just before sunset.

     “Don’t you have trouble sleeping, knowing that in just a few hours you might be taking someone’s life?”

     He sat up, stretched, and waxed philosophically.

     “Why should I? Any life I take will be deserving of being taken. I generally only take a life if they’re likely to take my own. And I have the added comfort of knowing that I have good and right and justice on my side.”

     “Well then… don’t you have any trouble sleeping, knowing that you could find a bullet tomorrow and it might be your last night on earth? Don’t you worry about the things you might have left unsaid? The things you might never have a chance to do? People you might never have a chance to meet?”

     He didn’t even hesitate. It was as though he’d had been asked the question a thousand times, and had his answer at the ready.

     “No, ma’am. You see, a Ranger’s worst two enemies are worry and fear. Fear of dying is a sure way of getting oneself killed. So is worry.”

     “How so?”

     “Because there’s a distinction between caution and being over cautious. Many people don’t see that, or don’t believe it. You should be cautious to a certain degree. To make sure you don’t give the bad guys an unearned advantage. And to tilt the odds in your favor when you can. But if you worry to the point where you’re overcautious, where you’re obsessing over every little thing that could go wrong, you’re setting yourself up for failure.”

     “Again, how so?”

     “I’ve seen men who were planning for an assault and were so hung up on considering every little factor that they were up for two or three sleepless nights before they went in. They said, ‘What if this happens, or that happens? What do I do?’

     “And they had plans to deal with this scenario and that scenario. And they had backup plans, and then backup plans to their backup plans.

     “And when it came time to go into battle, to set their plans in motion, they got themselves killed. And sometimes they got others killed along with them. Good guys, not the bad ones. And it was all because they were so tired, so mentally exhausted from obsessing instead of sleeping, that they weren’t on their game.”

     “Something went wrong that they didn’t plan for. And because they had no plan to deal with it, they had to think on their feet. But they couldn’t think on their feet because they were exhausted. And they were going by rote, their minds almost on auto-pilot and doing only the things they’d been programming it to do. They were unable to think on the run, and to make that split-second decision to save their own lives.

     “So they got killed instead.”

     “So what’s the solution?”

     “The solution, dear lady, is to do your homework. Find out what we can. We’ll never know exactly what’s behind those walls. How Tom is restrained, for example, or the way the barn is laid out.

     “So we find out as much as we can, and make plans accordingly, based on what we’re sure of. We’re sure he’s in the barn. Or if not, then somebody else is that needs to be rescued. We’re sure of the number of guards they have in the daytime. By the time we go in, we’ll be sure of what their nighttime strength is.”

     “And the things we don’t know?”

     “That’s where the stress factor comes in. We don’t beat ourselves up and deprive ourselves of sleep obsessing about things we cannot change. We tilt the odds in our favor to the greatest degree we can. And then we go in with clear heads, knowing we’re entering a fluid situation where things can and will change quickly and often. We use time and surprise as our allies.

     “And because we are mentally prepared for anything, we are able to adapt quickly to react to circumstances as they change.”

     “And that works?”

     “Not always. But usually.”

-14-

     In the sprawling ranch house at the Lazy R Ranch, Jack Payton sat in an overstuffed easy chair watching an old western video.

     He lived the life of a king, by most standards. While most of the survivors in and around Castroville scratched out a meager existence from day to day, he had nearly every creature comfort he’d possessed before the blackout.    

     He’d always been a powerful man. And brutal enough to make other men fear him. Those who didn’t follow him out of respect followed him because they were afraid to cross him.

     Or they ran.

     And that was okay with Payton. The runners were cowards. And he didn’t like to surround himself with cowards.

     Here he was, in the prime of his life, with no one at all to answer to. He no longer had to abide by prison rules and regulations. No longer had to kiss a boss’s ass to earn a meager paycheck. No longer had creditors to pay money to. No longer had women to answer to.

     Here the women answered to him. Here he was king. Other men called him boss and said, “Yes sir, no sir.” Other men asked what he needed done or what he wanted.

     It was a newly harsh world, where most people toiled to grow crops for their daily meals from the central Texas soil. Where they canned their extra vegetables and prayed to their gods above that their stores would be enough to last them through the coming winter. Who sent their men out daily to hunt and fish to supplement their diets.

     Of course, not all of them lived so harshly. Many of them signed on as ranch hands for the Lazy R. The pay wasn’t much. Payton was too greedy to pay good wages. But the wages were adequate, and there were other benefits as well.

     Not the least of which was an electrified house, powered by generators the ranch’s original owners had saved from the blackout.

     The rightful owners. The ones now dead at Payton’s hand.

     Working for Jack Payton wasn’t a bad life. The men did as they were told, followed his instructions, and were given a comfortable place to sleep at night. Good food to eat that they didn’t have to scratch for. A weekly allotment of whisky, and the affection of a few prostitutes Payton kept around just for that purpose.

     Oh, they weren’t always prostitutes. Before the blackout they’d been store clerks, secretaries, nurses or school teachers.

     But desperation causes people to do desperate things in order to survive.

     And when these women found themselves without husbands to help protect them from predators, they went to the biggest predator of all: Jack Payton.

     They’d heard that Payton would use them. Make them share their bodies with his men.

     But he would also give them a warm place to sleep at night. Food for their bellies. Clothes for their backs. And while his men might use the women to satisfy their own selfish needs, Payton would make sure the woman wouldn’t be beaten or killed afterwards.

     The same couldn’t be said for solitary women on the outside.

     Life on the ranch was regal by the new standards of the post-apocalyptic world.

     At least it was for Jack Payton.

     It was almost as comfortable for his right hand man, a man named Wimberly.

     Wimberly was the man who’d first pulled the gun on Tom when Tom was wheeling and dealing with Payton. The man Tom had looked at puzzled as he realized he’d been double crossed.

     The man who ordered Tom’s beating.

     Wimberly was Payton’s yes man. The man who knew more than anyone else what Payton wanted and who made sure he got it.

     As for everyone else in the compound not named Tom Haskins, life wasn’t regal but was relatively comfortable. Even the prostitutes were content in the knowledge that life on the outside could be much worse for them. The other women, held captive in a world where they were little more than slaves, tried to look at the bright side.

     At least when they laid their heads down to sleep at night, they could be reasonably certain they’d wake up again the next morning. And at least they had food to eat, and someone to protect them. More or less.

     Wimberly walked into the den and interrupted Payton’s movie, just as Clint Eastwood was sneering into the camera. If anyone else had done so, he’d have been berated by Payton and given additional duties or reduced rations as punishment.

     Wimberly got away with it because he was Payton’s trusted lieutenant.

     And because he was returning from a mission Payton had sent him on.

     Payton picked up the remote and paused the movie.

     “Well?”

     “No sign of the Ranger. He told Smitty he’d come back through today to see if we’d seen the guy, but he still hasn’t shown.”

     Payton looked out the window at the setting sun.

     “He’s not likely to, either. At least not today. Rangers are smart. They’re tested before they’re brought in, and the less intelligent ones are weeded out. Once they’re in, they’re trained to be even smarter. No Ranger is going to ride into an unfamiliar place after dark if there’s a chance of trouble. He’ll wait until tomorrow or the next day.”

     “What if he’s just given up? Gone elsewhere to look for somebody else?”

     “Nope. A Ranger will never abandon his mission. He’ll search for his man until he finds him, or is satisfied that he’s dead. How’s he doing, anyway? Has he said where he’s stashed his gold? I sure would love to get the gold, plus the reward for handing him over.”

     “He hasn’t said a word. Want me to have him beaten some more?”

     “No. We’ll give him until morning to stew. Then we’ll give him one more chance to open up. We’ll tell him if he doesn’t, we’ll beat him almost to death and then turn him over to the law. After half his bones are broken. If that don’t get him to talk, nothing will.”

     Outside, three hundred yards away, Sara and Randy waited patiently just inside the woods on the south side of the ranch.

     They had plans of their own.

-15-

     From their vantage point just inside the tree line, they could see two men leaning against the fence talking perhaps fifty yards away.

     The south side of the property was separated from the road by a section of range fencing perhaps eight hundred yards or so in length.

     That only two men stood guard over such a long section of fence would work to their advantage.

     So would the fact that the sky was overcast. There would be no moon or stars to shine light on Randy and Sara’s activities.

     Randy and Sara both had excellent night vision, so there was that.

     So far, their luck was holding.

     There was that too.

     “Now what?” Sara whispered.

     “Now we wait.”

     “For what?”

     “Shift change.”

     It was roughly a quarter of ten. Randy was capable of estimating the time by gazing up at the stars on most nights. But since the stars were hidden on this particular night, he was glad he brought his wind-up wristwatch. He’d always preferred windups, even before the blackout, because he hated having to replace the batteries. He figured a windup was good enough for his father and his father’s father. It was good enough for Randy as well.

     The men on guard duty before them might have similar watches. But if they didn’t, it didn’t matter. There would be running clocks in the ranch house. And someone would dispatch their relief at the appointed time.

     Randy knew that shift change would be either ten p.m. or midnight. For some reason, men disliked doing things on odd hours. Perhaps because it was easier to keep track of, counting an eight hour shift from an already even number. Or perhaps it was just a habit. But Randy would bet that shift change would occur either at ten or at midnight, as opposed to nine or eleven.

     While they waited, they watched as one of the two men left the other and walked east along the fence line.

     Randy assumed this was standard procedure.

     To make sure no intruders were outflanking them, they would walk both sides of their allotted area occasionally.

     It was also possible there was no requirement to do so. That the man merely took a walk out of boredom, or perhaps went to take a leak.

     Randy kept track of the time the man was gone. It was right at twenty minutes.

     Just a few seconds after he returned, the other man left, walking west alongside the fence.

     Randy checked his watch, then checked it again when the man returned. It was right at twenty minutes.

     “They have watches,” he whispered. “And they have set procedures to follow the fence line for a certain distance on a regular basis. Probably every hour. We can use that.”

     Sara nodded, although he couldn’t see it in the dark.

     “In case you haven’t noticed,” she said, “Ten o’clock came and went.”

     “Right. That means get comfortable. Shift change is at midnight. We’ll go in tonight, but we’ll wait until after shift change to put our plans in motion.”

     They hunkered down and waited, watching the men pace the fence line at the eleven o’clock hour. A few minutes after midnight two new men rode out of the darkness and dismounted. The four men exchanged some words, but were too far away for Randy to make anything out.