Families First: A Post-Apocalyptic Next-World Series Volume 6 Battle Grounds by Lance Ewing (ereader for comics .txt) 📕

“I thought you only killed those who were trying to kill you first?” queried Mike in a whisper.

“They are trying to kill me, just not today,” he said, crouching low and underneath the closest truck trailer.

“Quick and quiet,” said Sergio, barely audible above the thump of the bass speakers only 50 yards away.

They could clearly see three sets of legs underneath the trailer as their eyes adjusted to the nearly full-moon night sky.

“I’ll sweep left to right,” said Sergio, “and you right to left. Once they are down, don’t let them make a sound.”

Mike had always been a loner and wasn’t used to taking orders, except in the department, but Sergio held a spot for him that would give him a future where he could feel comfortable. So he followed orders, swept right to left, and a quick blade to the throat of the first man, and then a second, caught Sergio’s attention.

“I had planned on taking two to your one,” he admitted, “but you beat me to it! Good job.”

They waited a full three minutes to make sure they hadn’t stirred up any of the other men and called Hanson over when all looked clear.

“Okay, gentlemen,” said Sergio. “We are partially dismantling these machines, from front to back. Keep all wires intact and put them into the bag,” he added, pulling out three gunny sacks—like the kids used to hop race in—from his day pack.

“Think of it like pulling the distributor wire from a truck, and a few other things they won’t be able to easily replace. Start with what’s on the trailers, and we’ll disable the trucks at the end. Let’s stick together and only one trailer apart. Give a signal if you see anything, and have fun, gentlemen.”

Sergio took the third trailer down, followed by Hanson, then Mike bringing up the rear. Mike partially uncovered what looked like a two-seater crop-duster plane and worked the engine compartment open. He wasn’t sure what he was looking at and had a flash of his Sheila, thinking she would know exactly how to disable it. He remembered helping his brother, Arthur, set up a new TV Mike bought him with streetfighter winnings and how Arthur was so concerned about getting all the wires connected properly that he took Polaroid pictures—the kind that would need to be shaken as they came out of the bulky camera—of the back of both TVs before letting Mike switch the cables. He didn’t need it, but it made his brother happy, and that was all that mattered. Now he wouldn’t be concerned with how to put everything back together, for that would surely be someone else’s job, he thought.

“Hey guys,” said Hanson, trying to keep his voice down. “I think you’re going to want to see this,” he said, gathering them for a look at his trailer.

“It’s an Apache helo, right?” asked Mike.

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Hanson. “I used to fly this exact model—a few years older, of course—but they haven’t changed all that much, I hear. And they carry these,” he added, pointing to the rockets mounted on the side closest to them. “I’m guessing there are more on the other side, showing they’re serious about their business.”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Sergio, smiling like a 6-year-old boy who found out a foolproof way to sneak a cookie.

“Oh, no… I figured you were going to ask me something like this,” said Hanson, backing up two steps.

“All I’m asking is, if we got this thing unstrapped and started, could you fly it?” asked Sergio.

“Would I, or could I?”

“Could you?”

“Yes, but to what point?”

“Well, I say we disable all the rest and take this guy as a trophy, maybe give Bert a friend to hang out with. Just give her a once over and see if she can fly as is,” coaxed Sergio.

“Okay, but keep the tarp over the top. I need to turn the gauges on, and I don’t want to draw any attention,” replied Hanson. He only used his flashlight once, completely under the heavy tarp.

“I’ll keep an eye out if you want to keep going down the line,” Mike told Sergio.

“Sounds good, buddy. Back in a few.”

Mike sat on the ground, leaning against the trailer tire with his rifle across his lap. He felt around the bodies of the men guarding the trucks and shook his head back and forth in the dark, realizing none of them had weapons to retrieve.

“Guys! Hey, guys!” came a call from towards the river. “Are you ready for a shift change?”

Two figures walked towards the trucks, not alarmed yet from what Mike could tell.

“Hey guys, we need to do a shift change before I pass out,” said one, cursing and stumbling through the field without a flashlight.

Mike’s ears perked up as he got into a crouched position. He didn’t bother signaling Sergio or Hanson. He didn’t care that he was alone against two men, meaning to do his new adopted family great harm. Their approach slowed as they now both called out to their fallen comrades without a response.

“Where are they?” asked one. “Did they take off?”

“Maybe they’re sleeping on a trailer?” questioned the other now, both within feet of a crouched Mike.

“Nope and nope,” Mike said out loud, grabbing one man and spinning him around to face his friend.

“I have some questions,” he said, “and if I hear you scream or call out, it will be night-night for you both. Now, who wants to start?”

Both men stayed quiet, breathing heavily but not risking making a sound.

“I’ll start then,” said Mike, wondering if they even knew anything.

“The machines on these trailers. Are they ready to roll?”

Both men were silent.

“Okay, I’m a betting man,” said Mike. “Let’s try this one more time.

“Are they ready to go, right off the trailers?”