Pecos

Ricky knew the beer would hit him hard any minute now. Five big bottles on an empty stomach and not even ten AM.
But he felt fine. And not the least bit hungry. That was odd. When had he last eaten?
According to the missed calls, he had been out at least nineteen hours. But when did he leave home?
It's almost fifteen hundred miles to Van Horn from his home. A hard day and a half for anybody.
He noticed when he parked the Pete at Plateau, the tag had expired five years ago.
How did he make it out here without getting stopped?
And the cab was so clean. No ashes or butts in the ash tray. No soda cans or coffee cups. No clothes hanging in the closet.
And he hadn't used that old suitcase since he went to 4H Club summer camp when he was ten. Forgotten he even owned it.

He's finally putting it together, Jed thought. He is about to face the fact that he is dead.
He has known it for a while on some level, but has yet to accept the fact that he died in that foxhole with Edward Pinkston in Iraq four years ago.
Right after Pink caught the shrapnel in the face, Rick took a round right between the shoulder blades, severing his spine.
So called friendly fire. An American soldier was running for cover when the strike hit. He tripped and his finger was on the trigger, rather than outside the trigger guard, as he was trained.
The rifle fired as he was falling, only a few feet behind Rick and Pink's hole. He was coming to join them.

What a way to go. Stupid dumb luck. Rick enlisted the first time in the mid eighties. After Infantry school, he completed paratrooper school and was awarded his jump wings. Then on to the biggie, Ranger school. Still not satisfied, he went on to sniper school.
His first assignment was a rescue mission in Syria. Then black ops in Panama. A cake walk compared to Nicaraqua.
With only a high school education, he was commissioned as a Lieutenant with eight years service.
He was on the fast track, fearless in the field. A soldier's soldier. Then one day he just quit.
Never told anybody why. Maybe he didn't know himself.

He spent about six months with an old high school friend who had since moved to Arkansas riding around the country in an eighteen wheeler.
Habit taught him to drive as well. He loved it so much he took his life savings and bought a brand new '97 Peterbilt.
But he soon became bored with day to day trucking and longed for the excitement of his special forces days.
Habit was a former Marine who knew the basics of survival and hardship. And more importantly, risk.
Rick approached him with a plan. One plan led to the next and for the next seven years the dynamic duo became the modern day Frank & Jessie James.
If it paid enough cash, they would haul it. Weapons, drugs, even human cargo.
Then one day it all came to an end. Rick was recalled by Uncle Sam. They needed a man with his expertise, they said. Troop levels were low. There was no draft. It takes too long to train fresh meat. They told him to pack his bags and appear in thirty days.
The only option was to hide out and become a fugitive, maybe leave the country. That wasn't an option for Rick.
He was a soldier first and foremost. And if they wanted a trained killer, then by God, he was their man.
Less than a year later it was over. All that training. All that experience. Seventy-six comfirmed kills. Silver Star, Two Bronze Stars for valor.
Gone in the blink of an eye due to a rookie mistake.

And now, five years later, he has been recalled again. It seems his expertise has come to somebody else's attention.
Somebody with more authority than Uncle Sam.

 

"So,Jed, how did you get here?" Rick asked, having finally grasped some rudimentary understanding of his situation.
"I had been in the war since '61. I enlisted as a second Lieutenant on account of I had two years of college. In early '63 I was promoted to Captain and promptly given a command.
One for which I was ill equipped. I told them so, to no avail. We were losing a lot of men and battlefield commisions were becoming quite common.
At twenty-eight, I was considered old for a troop commander.
I led my men into an ambush. They said it couldn't have been avoided, but I know better.
I should have sent a small recon force in ahead of the main body. But I feared for the lives of a few men going ahead alone.
I believed in strength in numbers. You see, I had no formal military training prior to enlistment.
I was studying to be an architect in college. Also took courses in mythology, which my family found blasphemous.
I led the troop into a deep valley, where we were promptly surrounded on three sides.
My horse was the first to find the trip wire. I dove off as she fell to avoid being crushed.
I never got off a shot. I was hit just below the knee. The ball ammo of the era was primitive and inflicted massive damage.
The lower portion of my leg was dangling by a narrow piece of flesh which became disconnected as I attempted to crawl for cover.
I soon went into shock, and lay upon the battlefield as if I were dead, which most likely dissuaded the Yanks from shooting me again.
When I awoke, I was in a medical tent, with my sergeant standing over me.
'How bad was it?' I asked him. We lost one hundred and nineteen men out of one hundred and fifty.
I was mortified, embarrassed to be among the living. I was weak and felt the early onset of delerium.
Infection had set in and the medic said it would be necessary to amputate well above the knee.
Being an officer, I was allowed two shots of whiskey as an anesthetic. I died on the table from blood loss."

"Thats how I got here. The why I was never told. At first I though it was punishment, but I since learned that to be incorrect.
I have seen those that were punished. Like Zeke.
I came to the conclusion that I am here as a chance at redemption. Somebody saw a speck of worth in me, it seems.
I don't think that is your case. Not as fast as you returned. No, young man. They see value in you. And believe me, your services are desperately needed.
As to when, I found myself sitting on this porch in nineteen eighteen, during the first world war. Idabelle joined me ten years later, looking just a she does today."

''Let me ask you something, Rick. Were you shot in the neck, or the spine?"
"Yes, sir I was. Right between the shoulder blades."
"I thought so. You have difficulty turning your neck, which will be cumbersome in battle. But at least you have all your limbs.
I bet you have a nasty scar on your back, you just don't know it yet. Those are the rules. You keep you original body. It never changes. The upside is, there is no pain and you never age.
I can raise from my chair and hold myself up with the porch railing. That's how I piss off the porch. Idabell helps me when I want to go in.
I drink the beer because I like it, and it gives me something to do.
But we don't need nourishment of any sort and sleep is optional. I don't know what the next step is, or if there is one, but I've been this way for ninety two years."

 

"I have come to think of myself as an admimistrator. Or more specifically an overseer of yonder property." Jed continued.
"There was a slaughter house there when I arrived. Cattle were herded in by the thousands.
The blood seemed to attract them. They also seem to become more active in times of war.
The slaughter house went bust in the thirties, during the Great Depression. Things were quiet for a while.
The government bought the property in the forties and built a sewing plant.
Made uniforms for our troops. A lot of odd deaths began occuring, which were written off as job related, which was absurd.
After WWII ended, they closed the plant and things settled down for a while.
During the Viet-Nam era, the sewing plant main building was converted into an aircraft hangar.
That was a bad time. One morning in sixty-eight the commander came in to find eight men hanging from the rafters by their feet. The men had clawed each other's eyes out before they died.
The following year two men were reported AWOL, not unusual for that time.
They were found at the end of the runway buried up to their necks. An incoming pilot noticed an agitated pack of coyotes. By the time anybody got down there, the canines had dug down to the armpits.
Coyotes are cowardly scavengers. They will typically disperse when approached by a larger predator, especially a human.
Not these. They became aggressive and had to shot by the MPs. They were said to have unusually long fangs and yellow eyes."

 

"Do they know you are here?" Rick asked, still ejoying the beer, having decide it was truly nectar from the Gods.
"That's a good question. I think they sense some interference. They know you are coming, but not who or what you are.
They let your friend get the messages out. That's a first. If it was really him. It may be curiousity on their part. They may think they are luring me out of my lair.
It does show their confidence to invite an unknown opponent. That scares me."
"Has anyone else seen you, or just pulled in here for a neighborly chat?
I would think folks would find it strange for a young couple to live here over ninety years without aging a day." Rick observed.
"Excellent observation. About once a month a car passes by.
Usually somebody lost or a couple looking for some privacy to fornicate.
That goes back to horse and buggy times. There is nothing really new in this world.
Regardless of speed of travel or mode of transportation, no one has ever looked over here or even slightly acknowledged the existence of this homestead."
Rick noticed for the first time, there was no mailbox or power lines leading to the house.
"I have wondered if I, or you for that matter, could be seen by live people, but I have no way of knowing, since I have never left here.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm really here at all, or if I'm just part of a bizarre dream and my body is still in that medic tent in Tennessee."

 

After learning all he could about being undead, as vague as the rules were, Rick decided it was time to plan his mission, as hopeless as it seemed.
Jed was in possession of an item that proved to be particularly helpful. A topographic map of the county with amazing detail, accompanied by aerial surveilance photos of the airport.
Not surprisingly, Jed's homestead was nowhere to be seen.
The terrain was level for the most part, with the occasional rises and crevaces created by eons of wind.There was little else in the way of natural cover, making it a guerilla fighters nightmare.
Rick asked Jed if there happened to be a tool shed out back.
"Of course. In the back yard, by the farm tractor." He answered with a laugh.
With just a little searching, Rick found the first two items on his list. A siphon hose and some old rags.
He siphoned enough gas from the Chevy to fill ten of the empty beer bottles and remembered to put some in his old Zippo lighter, checking the flint as well.Although he had absolutely no physical for one, Rick thought a cigarette would be nice. It used to part of his pre plan ritual.
The rags he tore into strips, for use as fuses.
Also finding some small hand tools, he removed the scope from the Winchester. He wouldn't need it at a hundred feet. Besides, it would be useless at night.
He found an old style metal milk bottle crate, ideally suited to haul his firebombs, when he mounted it on the back of the ATV.
A brown jar with a skull and crossbones on the label caught his attention. Cyanide.
Back on the porch, the lovely Idabelle provided him with a glass mixing bowl.
He poured the granules into the bowl, gradually blending in the proper amount of the cool, golden beer until he obtained the desired consistency.

 

Jed watched with curiosity and admiration as Rick prepared the hollow point .45 caliber bullets.
Rick grabbed the cyanide off the shelf simply because it was dust free, unlike everything else in the tool shed. In fact, it appeared to be new.
He is a quick study, Jed thought. They made a wise choice with this one.
Using the heated tip of the hunting knife, he slightly expanded the hole in the soft tip of each bullet.
Using a tiny funnel, fashioned from aluminum foil, he carefully poured the enchanted beer/poison solution into each opening.
Using a crimping tool from the tool box, he then sealed the openings.
Not completely satisfied with his work, he then heated the flat surface of the knife to press down on each tip. The hot steel would slightly melt the softer lead tips as he did so,creating a secure bond.

 

Having satisfied himself with his equipment, Rick turned his attention to the map, planning his assault.
"I have decided against the trail by the riverbed." He told Jed.
"Don't want to risk a booby trap, or an ambush."
Jed nodded, as if thought this a wise choice.
"Right here" Rick said, pointing to a spot on the map,"appears to be a slight depression that may provide fairly smooth travel. Looks like I can gain access to it about 400 meters down the road.
There looks to be a nice little hummock about a hundred meters from the hangar.
I will dismount there and lowcrawl to another rise about a hundred feet out. Be a good observation post.
Leaving here an hour before dusk, give me a look around before it's totally dark.
It's due east, so I'll have the sun at my back, and in their eyes. I
I wish I knew the window placement. Just have to play it by ear."
He then went out to the Chevy and got the camo jumpsuit, which fit perfectly.
He then darkened his face with axle grease from the garage.
He secured the wire metal milk bottle crate with some bungees from the bed of the pick up and stuffed handfulls of oak leaves amongst the beer bottle fire bombs to prevent them from rattling.
"Will you join me for another beer or two before you depart?" Jed called from the porch.
"Of course, Captain. It would be an honor."
Idabelle met him on the porch with a pair of bandoliers she had constucted with what appeared to be old army fatigue fabric.
The loops were perfectly formed to hold the rifle bullets. A nice touch were the larger pouches deigned to accommodate the .45 cal magazine.
"Thank-you so much, Miz Idabelle. How thoughtful of you."
"She's right handy with a needle and thread." Jed commented.
"You be careful now, sugar." She said as she gave him a goodbye kiss on the cheek.

 

Rick turned his attention back to see him standing for the first time since his arrival that morning.
He was doing so with the aid of a rudimentary wood leg. Not much more than a square peg at the bottom.
Jed was dressed in his full dress Confederate uniform. The sabre was attached to a polished, black leather belt, to which was affixed an oval, silver buckle which read CSA.
He offered Rick a crisp salute, which he returned smartly.
The sautes were followed by a warm handshake.
"May the Gods of war bless you on your mission, Lieutenant. You are an honorable warrior, or else you would not be here. Godspeed on your safe return."
"Thank-you, sir. I shall certainly put forth my best."

 

The depression Rick pinpointed on the map proved to be a dry creek bed, possibly an offshoot of the riverbed south of here.
It was an easy ride, the only minor obstacles being the occasional larger rocks, which were easy enough to dodge.
Approaching a distinct bend to the southeast, he recognized this as the halfway point to his parking spot.
Time to back off the throttle. The westerly wind at his back would carry the sound some distance.
Little did he know that whatever sounds he made could not be heard over the agonizing screams of the Federal agent being held captive in the airport office.
The rise he sought was easy to spot. Actually a ridgeline that ran south a few hundred feet, to the right of the creekbed.
Boulders may have created a wind dam of sorts eons ago, catching sand and dirt until a natural wall was formed. Just another anamoly of the desert. At over five feet in heigth, it was an ideal place to stash the Honda, and low enough for him to take a peek over with the binoculars.
The old structure was essentialy a tall rectangle, with the long side running parallel with the runway, which lay beyond.
Attached to the main building was a single story substructure of about fifty by twenty feet in area. It was banked by two sets of four section windows, with four panes per section.
From this distance and elevation, only the uppermost rows of panes were visible, well above head heigth of any possible occupants.
Not wanting to fully expose himself for a better view by standing up on the embankment, he decided it could wait until he reached his recon point.
Ricky knew gasoline weighed roughly eight pounds per gallon, which meant his molotov supply weighed in at over twenty-five pounds,not including the bottle weight and the metal rack.
And no graceful way to carry the darn thing either.
So with the .303 slung across his back, the .45 in a pouch in the coveralls,the binoculars laying over the full bandoliers, he hoisted up the crate and soldiered on; looking for all the world like a demented milk man from hell.

 

The closer he got to his destination, the more shallow the creek bed became. With a hundred yards to go, it had became only waist deep.
Merely hunching down was no longer enough to conceal his presence. Rick dropped to his knees and drug the crate along beside him.
With his senses on high alert, he spied the rattlesnake well before he reached him. The old rattlesnake was giving him the once over.
The most common of the ten breeds in all of Texas, and the most venomous, was the western diamondback.
That's what this big fella was. The falling sun was creating some shade along the walls of the natural trench, bringing the viper out of his lair.
After a breif hesitation, Rick continued his awkard shuffle, keeping the crate between him and the rattler.
As he closed the gap, he inspected the rattler for any signs of demonic possession, mindful of the coyotes Jed told him about.
The snake was checking him out as well. Now Ricky knew he could be seen, by reptiles anyway, whatever that was worth.
He suspected Jed was only invisible to passers by because of a cloak provided by the homestead, but Jed had never ventured out to prove the theory one way or another, but he was allowed to see it, only proving they were of the same ilk.
The snake seemed to be repelled by the noxious fumes coming from the gasoline filled bottles and allowed him to pass without a fight,
Rick would have preferred some oil, or even kerosene, to mix with the gas, which was the preferred method to concoct a molotov, but none was to be found.
He had a feeling the golden beer would provide a more than suitable substitute. Good for what ails you.

The creek bed came to an abrupt halt at the hummock Ricky was seeking. The creek may have been diverted years ago, from the other side of the runway when the sewing plant was built.
Rick quickly identified the motorized hum he was hearing as coming from a portable gas powered generator, no doubt providing electricity for lights and the office air conditioner.
That was smart. There was no record at the power company of anyone being out here since Zeke's death.
Habit obviously remembered their last conversation, before he shipped out to Iraq. Rick had told him of this place and how Zeke was a reliable contact. Oh, how he regretted giving his friend that advice now.

The woman must be Maria. Glossy black hair to her shoulders and a confident gait, she seemed to be in charge of the men she was ordering about.
If they could be called men. Their movements were mechanical, as if occupying bodies they weren't accustomed to.
And the faces were something else. They were basically human, but somehow off. The small noses and nearly nonexistent chins gave them a rat like appearance.
The hands were tiny, almost claw like, the eyes small and dark.