Shepherd

SEVEN

From Glenrock, Shepherd pushed the convoy hard, rejoining the I-25 and fighting back the urge to push the rig on beyond a safe speed. With such a trailer and such a dark night, the risk of tipping the entire thing into a ditch was dangerously high.

The radio was filled with panic-stricken chatter as the other drivers tried to rationalize what had just happened. Shepherd turned it off after a moment or two of listening, content to focus on the rumbling wheels beneath him and the shifting, shimmering asphalt just in front of his rig. He hadn't been dealing with professionals, that was for certain. No one in their right mind would have knocked on the inch-thick armour-plated door to get his attention, knowing that the answer could come from a gun or, as Utah realized in his last moments, a frag grenade. The small explosive wouldn't have made a scratch on the rig's body or the protective plates that covered the tires, but to a tall black man from Utah, it may have done a bit more.

But as the road curved north again, Shepherd knew that he couldn't drive on much further. It wasn't fatigue or stress that stopped him. It was Utah's trailer.

"What's happening, Shep?" asked Foley as he turned the radio back on and began pulling into the side of the road.

"Wait here," he said. "I've got to go deal with Utah's rig."

"We can't-"

"There's no 'we' here, Foley. I'll be better on my own. Wait here and keep watch over the convoy until I get back."

"You're fucking crazy! There must be dozens of them out there."

"I doubt it," he replied, grabbing the rifle and the spare magazines. "Two died with Utah and I saw maybe six more nearby."

"I've heard stories about you but man, this-" began the Texan but by then Shepherd was down the ladder and opening the rear compartment of his rig. Specially made in North Carolina to his own design, a six-foot wide space had been added to the rear of the cab that ran its entire length. Bolted inside was a KTM 1290, painted a matte black and fitted with custom hard boxes and an enlarged fuel tank. It was his back-up, his get-out-of-jail free card which was there if the rig ever broke down or he needed to make a clean escape. It was registered under an alias and the entire project, from rig to bike to I.D had cost him most of his savings. Now, with the world the way it was, he realized just how much of an investment it'd been. That and its sister bike on the other side, painted a deep purple. Nat's bike.

He wheeled it down the ramp and set it on its stand, closing up the compartment once he'd taken down his lid and armored jacket. Then, slinging the rifle across his back, he mounted the machine, turned over the engine and felt the throb run between his thighs.

In moments he was speeding back down the I-25, forming a plan in his mind as the lone headlamp cut a swathe through the midnight darkness. The North Platte river was to his left and it snaked right through Glenrock, passing under the 95. Would it be deep enough, he wondered?

"Mine? Are you kidding me?" cried Nat as she saw the monster being carefully handled off the back of the low-loader into the waiting arms of the KTM specialists.

"I hope you like the color," said Shepherd sheepishly. In truth, it was an educated guess. But the hand-painted angelic symbol on the tank wasn't. It was a copy of the one inked on her ankle, the one he saw every night before he went to sleep in his lonely cot. If he was spilling money at the project, he might as well go the distance.

"I don't know what to say..." she replied as the bike was eased onto its side stand on the road in front of her. Shepherd tipped the crew before they packed up their straps and clamps and drove off. "It's..."

"A net. A safety net for when it comes."

"When what comes? You really think it's going to end, don't you?"

"I do. I think we're only going to get one chance, one straight run to the cabin before it's too late and these things are the best hope we have of getting there. They're tricked for off-road and the tanks should give us plenty of miles."

"They're gorgeous. Sexy. Is it wrong that I'm squeezing my thighs right now?"

"That's a perfectly normal reaction to a beautiful motorcycle, my love."

Her hand shot out and cupped his jeans and she let out a cry of laughter.

"You're right," she said. "It is."

Glenrock looked and sounded deserted as he pulled the bike into the gap between two sheds on the highway 26 speedway. The wind had picked up and it blew across the dusty land of Wyoming with a somber pitch. Turning off the engine, he set his lid down on the seat and tucked the keys into the pocket of his jacket. Then, checking that the spare magazines were in his left-hand pocket, face down, he unslung the rifle and made ready.

A pause. Then, when his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he set off west, into town. The gravel, dirt and detritus of the empty town crunched beneath his boots and his breathing steadied as the initial fear began to subdue. He needed to be in the zone and the race from the rig to there had done the trick of pumping adrenaline into his system. He was ready now, ready and sharp, just like he'd been in Iraq and Syria. Just like he'd been in Bogotá during the Cartel wars.

As he walked along the wide 26, he passed the post office and saw that there were cars parked up there. They weren't abandoned this time, they were carefully arranged near the door and as he hurried across to look closely he began to hear music of some kind coming from inside. There weren't any clear signs of life inside, other than the tunes, but when he put his hand on the hood of a red Caddy he could still feel some of the warmth from the engine.

He backed away, looking at the building and its entrances. It was difficult to make out but from the roadside there appeared to be only one way in, up a flight of concrete steps just right of a sign that promised passports being issued within.

"Not anymore," he chuckled to himself.

There was a low, stone wall facing the entrance and a plan formed in his mind. In such poor light, taking out Utah's people would be a simple task and other than ridding the world of some wasters, it would also give him a chance to take back the rig in relative peace. He chewed it over in his mind, weighing up his options before he realized it had very little to do with reason. He wanted revenge – plain and simple. Utah had tricked them all at the worst possible time – when they were weakest, when the country was in ruins and it was nothing short of kicking a man when he was down. It was low, dirty and downright shitty and he wanted payback. Retribution.

Easing himself into a crouch behind the wall, he leveled his rifle on the doorway and let out a long, deep breath. Then, fingering the trigger, he fired a single shot into the glass and the resulting crash tore the night apart.

"3... 2... 1..." he counted aloud and when the first person came out, he fired again. The shape dropped, tumbling forward down the stone steps as another appeared and opened up to his left with a machine pistol. They couldn't see him in the darkness and he fired again, the light coming from inside the post office silhouetting them perfectly. The man went down, followed by another and another until they realized that perhaps stepping out into a turkey-shoot wasn't the best plan.

By this time Shepherd was ducking down low and speeding across the lot towards the left, taking cover by the low platform that ran around the front of the building. He could hear them whispering inside, he was that close now. Taking a grenade from his pocket, he gently pulled the pin and released the handle, counting off the seconds in his head before hurling it into the doorway. It detonated almost immediately and the last of the glass shattered, crashing down along with part of the brickwork.

All noise ceased. The music was gone and there were no more voices. Stepping up onto the platform with the rifle at his shoulder he cleared the entrance and saw two more bodies, now just bloody pulps half-buried under rubble. He went from corner to wall, moving through the dust-choked building, sweeping left and right until he was sure the place was empty. All that remained were the remnants of a camp, a gas stove, some sleeping bags and a lamp. He counted twelve. That left three more out there at a loose guess.

They were good odds.