Pecos

Author's note: switching to third person mode


The sun was breaking the horizon as Rick veered left onto I-20.
He remembered a parking area about twenty miles from Pecos, where he planned on stopping to inspect the contents of the pick up.
He was especially interested in the three long guns in the rack behind his head. He longed for a silenced pistol for close work, but this hunting knife on the passenger seat would have to do. A fine blade indeed. About eight inches long with a finely honed edge.Perhaps better than his old bayonet.
The piece on the bottom rack section was a .22. Ok for jackrabbits, but not what he needed today.
The middle section contained a greater prize. A Remington 12 gauge pump. But no shells to be found anywhere.
Hoping for something better, he hit paydirt with the final weapon. A Winchester .303 lever action, and two full boxes of bullets on the floor.
This old fellow must have been quite the hunter, for Rick also discovered high powered binoculars and a lightweight desert camo jumpsuit.

If Rick was skeptical of his windfall, he didn't show it. The odds of luck like this were simply monumental. He saw it as a gift from the Gods of war, never stopping to think it may be a lure of the devil.
Bait to lure him into a fiery trap. Tools to fight an enemy he could never defeat.

 

Rick knew the location of the airport from memory. About three miles due south of I-20. The entrance road was only accessible from the service road, with no direct exit from the interstate. One way in and one way out.
There was an old Farm to Market road that skirted the airport property however, and came within a mile of the main building. It was open desert, not ideally suited for daytime infiltration, but he felt time ticking away.
An open assault would be possible death for himself, but delaying until dark would be certain death for his friend.
Maybe the unexpected wasn't such a bad option. They wouldn't expect an early raid. Or would they?

 

Ah, there it is, FM2112, pavement ends, one mile read the first sign.
Followed by, road ends, four miles. Hmm, this old road used to be the back way to Fort Stockton.
Shortly after the road became gravel, Rick saw the first house, and the first trees, since leaving the freeway.
An old, high gabled house with a wrap around porch, that would have looked right at home in Charleston, South Carolina, sat amongst some grand old oak trees that must have been a hundred years old.
Two large flags adorned the front of the home. One was the old pre civil war, Republic of Texas banner, and the other was the Stars & Bars, the confederate battle flag.
None of this is what grabbed Rick's attention. It was the Honda ATV that was of interest.
Rick eased up the long driveway, aware of the temperature change immediately. Almost as if it was no longer July in west Texas.
Maybe it was a little chill from withdrawal from the Wild Turkey. Perhaps the shade from the big oak trees accounted for the drop in temperature.
He tried to fool himself into believing that, but the fact was, it felt as if he were entering another dimension. But he couldn't allow himself to believe such foolishness. There had to be a rational explanation.

 

From Habit:


I slipped away to write you one more time, at dawn I face the firing squad, #### Maria, its hard for me to believe that she betrayed me, I'm sorry this went so wrong, I never wanted you to get dragged into this, they will come for you, I promise you that, thats all they can talk about, they did give me a last supper, not much, boiled rat and some masa bread, I guess this is goodbye, Take care of yourself, in 3 short hrs I wil be gone, I'll miss you, we have all the memories, remember...kill em all!!!!

 

Sitting on the porch in a rocking chair was an old man in coveralls, with an old hound at his feet.
Upon closer inspection, I realized he wasn't nearly as old as I first thought. What I mistook for gray hair was actually blonde. He may have been thirty and he held a bottle of beer in his hand.
It was barely eight A.M. but it he made it look perfectly acceptable. And he didn't seem the least bit suprised to have a visitor.
Even the dog wasn't alarmed, but wagged his tail as if an old friend had arrived.
"Mornin' sir," Rick said in greeting. "Don't mean to intrude like this, but I'm kinda in a bind right now. I'll get right to the point. I'd like to borrow that four wheeler ya got there. I'll leave the keys in this pick up for collaterall. If I don't make it back, the truck is yours. I aint got much cash, but I'll give ya that .22 rifle and that Remington shotgun. And I'll throw in the Winchester when I get back. If I get back, that is."
The man on the porch never changed his expression.
"Is that truck stolen?" he asked matter of factly.
"Yes, sir, it is." Rick answered.
"I see. You said you might not make it back. What makes you say that?"
"I got to face some bad men. Help my friend."
"I see. You want a beer?"
It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to accept.
"Yes, sir. I reckon I got time."
"Yes, you do." he answered as he hollered into the house."Idabelle, we got company out here. Bring us some cold beer outa the icebox."

 

"My name is Jed," the man said as Rick climbed the porch steps. "And I reckon you're Rick."
"How do you know that?"
"Don't matter, I just do. An eighteen wheeler went down the road to the airport yesterday. I reckon that that was your friend. He never come out. But I reckon you know that too."
Idabelle was beautiful. A southern belle personified. A parasol would have completed the ensemble.
She came bearing a stainless steel pail filled with ice and brown bottles of beer. There were no labels on the bottles.
"Good mornin, Mister Rick. I'll let you menfolk tend to business. If yall need anything, just holler."
"I reckon you knew Zeke, fella that owned the airport?" Jed asked.
"Yeah, I knew him, I mean I know him. We used to uh...work together."
"You don't know him. You knew him. He's dead now. Been that way for two years. And I know what kind of work yall did.
"Aint been an airplane come in there for four or five years. The last few years Zeke just sat out there in his office. Had a bed in there, but don't think he ever slept much. Folks around here said he was just a crazy drunk, but that was just gossip. They only thought they knew what went on."
"And you know?" Rick asked.
"I didn't say that either"

 

"Did you find your Zippo?" The question came from nowhere.
"Yes, sir, I did. And my bayonet. I didn't bring either one from home. I'm sure of that now."
"And don't worry about the room. It wasn't in your name. Wouldn't matter if it was anyway."
"Who was the girl?" Rick asked with concern.
"I can't say"
"You can't or you won't?"
"I can't, because I don't know. I used to think they would just send random things from time to time. But as time passed, I realize they make mistakes.
The Peterbilt, the Zippo, the bayonet. They thought you needed those things.
You were supposed to wake up in the Ramada in Pecos. With a live woman. Not the Days Inn in Van Horn with a corpse.
Like I said, they make mistakes. The Chevy was my idea though."

 

"The ancient Semites, by ancient, I mean somewhere between the dinosaurs and Jesus Christ, if you believe in either one, had females such as Agasaya and Anath.
The Greeks, being equal opportunity had Ares and Athena. The Chinese had Guan-di and the Japanese had Hachiman. The Vikings had Hod.
And way before Christopher Columbus, and the Vikings before him came to this continent, there was Ictinike."
Rick was rapt with attention, suddenly his thirst for knowledge seem to be equaled only by the thirst for this strange, but heavenly tasting beer.
He felt no effects of alcohol, only a replenishment of the nature he never dreamed possible.
The lovely Idabelle returned with a new pail without being summoned. He wondered if he missed his own Idabelle by landing in the wrong motel.
After a brief pause for Rick to admire admire Idabelle and for the men to open another of the brown bottles, Jed continued.
"Those names have been erased from our culture by the 'modern' religions of the last few thousand years, but the forces are still at work."
Rick had no idea where this crazy talk was going, but one of the names rang a bell. Ares, son of Zues, God of war.
How the hell did he know that? Ah, Edward Pinkston. Ed was a National Guardsman who was a history professor in civilian life.
Rick once shared a foxhole with him for six days. The guy drove him nuts. He never shut up. He only had a week left in country, then he was going back to Madison, Wisconsin. Back to his natural habitat of books and students.
But a piece of shrapnel changed all that. No bigger than a nickel. Travelling a few hundred miles per hour, just under the lip of his helmet, entering Ed's super intelligent brain just above his right eye.
The man was a genius. He taught thousands of people thousands of things, and all Rick remembered was Ares.

 

"Where abouts you from, soldier?" Jed inquired.
"Elijay, Georgia, a little mountain town most folks never heard of."
"That's the best place to be from. Man can find some peace. I love that country. Hills, trees, clear running streams.I served in Stone Mountain. Kennesaw too. A lot like my old home in Tennessee. Gatlinburg aint the same, what I hear. Buncha yankees and city folk done turned it into a #### carnival. Don't reckon it matters, since I can't never go back.
I'm stuck in this God forsaken place. Doing my eternal duty. At least they give me these fine old oak trees. The water in that well is ice cold year round. And of course there's Idabelle."
Rick found his eyes drawn to the sabre leaning against the wall, by the screen door.
"May I look at that?" he asked Jed.
"By all means, sir."
Emblazoned in raised letters on the silver hasp was CSA. Underneath that, smaller script was ingraved, which read: Captain Jedemiah P. Collier, 4th Calvary, Dyersburg, Tennessee, 1863-.
Something else just clicked from Edward Pinkston's incessant yammering in the foxhole- Colliers Raiders.
"Another one of their mistakes. I was hoping for my old Colt .45 revolver. Did you know that ammo made today still works in that piece? That was a fine shootin iron.
Anyhow, they sent me that #### sword. It did come in handy one night though. I reckon my great, great grandson is still scratchin his head wondering how that thing disappeared outa the museum he donated it to."

 

"I reckon you seen that sign saying the road is closed up ahead. It ends at a dry riverbank. Bridge collapsed a couple year ago. About the time Zeke died.
Actually died is a kind way of putting it. Anyhow, the bridge never got rebuilt. Aint nothing down there anyhow.
Some old houses, what's left of them anyway, been long abandoned. Dry, unforgiving country out here.
When you get to the riverbank, you will see a trail on your left that runs along the bank. It comes out at the end of the runway.
That pickup won't make it. Too rocky and narrow. That little Honda will though. But I reckon you knew that or you wouldn't be here.
It just showed up last night. Like Santa Claus brung it. I seen it when I got up a little while ago.
Figured you'd be here. Anyhow, from the end of the runway to the hangar, is six hundred yards. That's eighteen hundred feet, exactly what the scope on that .303 is zeroed in at.
Still a tough shot for any man. Wind out here can throw off a shot somethin fierce.
But I got a feelin you got some close in work on your mind. You done took this personal.
I reckon you know they done cut off your boy's foot. I imagine what they done is cauterized it to keep him from bleedin out.
That's why I said you got time. They aim on keepin him alive til you get there.
Oh, they might see fit to cut off the other one, or maybe a hand. Just to try to hurry you up, mind you, but they ain't gonna kill him for a while, as much as he wishes they would.