Honor Road by Jason Ross (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

inside before shouting to the raiders. “We don’t have any food, so you’re just going to have to let her go.”

“Bullshit. The other guy said you have food,” the man fired back. “Give us whatcha got.”

“We have some. We have some,” Isaiah screamed from inside. “Just wait a minute.”

“Nah, we got jack shit,” Cameron cupped his hands around his mouth. “Do what you’re gonna do, fuckers. Get on with it.”

“Fine. Say goodbye to her, then, assholes. She’s ours now.” Three men in the cottonwoods laughed.

Cameron had put the bucket of wheat on a high shelf right before bed in hopes of keeping mice out. Isaiah probably hadn’t noticed, so his bumbling search continued in vain. Minutes later he found the bucket and bolted onto the porch.

“I have it. Hold on. I have it here!” his voice warbled.

Ruth burst out the door with Isaiah’s shotgun. Cameron grabbed her arm and restrained her before she flew off the porch, into the night and to her own death.

“They’re gone,” Cameron said. “You’re not going to stop them. Not with this.” He grabbed the little shotgun from her hands.

“No! I have your food. Take it!” Isaiah yelled from inside the house.

“Shut up,” Cameron hissed. “Just shut up, Isaiah. They’re gone. Put the food back inside. I’ll follow them. I’ll go after her. You stay here.”

Isaiah wept, “My girl. Oh, my girl.”

“Pull it together.” Cameron grabbed him by the shoulders and shook. “I need you in the game. Focus.”

Isaiah’s whimpering lessened. Cameron comforted him. “I’ll follow them, okay? You stay here in case they come back. Get inside and guard the door until I return.”

Isaiah searched for the shotgun around the inside of the doorframe. He couldn’t see it in Cameron’s hands because of the dark.

“Stop. Say it, Isaiah,” Cameron ordered. “Say that you’ll stay here and guard the rest of the family. I’m not going after Leah until you say it, and we both know who the better fighter is between the two of us.”

“I’ll stay,” Isaiah mumbled through the phlegm. “I’ll guard the rest.”

“Good. Hide the food. If we lose the food, we die.” Cameron stepped off the porch and cut a beeline across the pasture for the edge of the cottonwoods.

There were three men. Their three to Cameron’s one. But it was worse than that. It was God-knew-how-many bullets in their guns to his five. It didn’t matter, he had no intention of fighting the marauders.

The marauders kept moving all the way to the river, then upstream toward Rockville. He’d followed them mostly to keep Isaiah from giving away their remaining food. Without that food, they would all surely die. Cameron still believed they could all survive, and if not all of them, certainly his own family. With the girl gone, as tragic as it would be, there would be one less hungry mouth. Their odds of survival would increase.

Heck, the girl’s odds of survival were probably better with the marauders, raped or not.

The men couldn’t walk and cover the girl’s mouth at the same time, and they probably tired of carrying her and gagging her because Cameron could now hear her sobbing through the trees. It made them easy to follow. When they went to cross the Virgin River, he caught up. He poked his head out of the brambles and watched in the moonlight as two men waded across the river, one carrying the girl over his shoulder. A minute or two later, the third man crossed behind them.

Once on the far side of the river, the marauders gave up any semblance of stealth. They joked and talked, sticking to the dark fringe of cottonwood trees. Maybe this was Sherwood Forest for this fucked up Robin Hood and his Band of Merry Rapists. In any case, if they left the riverbed, they’d be in open country—with no more cover than occasional sagebrush and limestone monoliths. It made sense to stay under cover where nobody could see their silhouettes to make a shot.

When the raiders set up camp a half-mile south of the town of Rockville, Cameron stopped and listened.

He could’ve let the men go when they crossed the river, but he hadn’t. He’d crossed behind them and stayed on their trail. He could’ve doubled back and claimed to have lost them. Isaiah and Ruth would’ve made a fuss, but they would’ve come to terms.

The pitch dark of the riparian forest and the loud banter from the men had made it easy to follow them, and by their conversation, it sounded as though they carried spoils of earlier raids. Cameron told himself he followed them on the outside chance of stealing their food. It had nothing to do with the girl.

He crouched against a tree in the dark, listening to them brag about their escapades. His stomach grumbled so loudly, he was afraid they might hear.

They talked about coming from Las Vegas, and bumping from town-to-town, picking at the dying outskirts of the communities of Mesquite, Santa Clara, Saint George, Hurricane and soon, Rockville. They slept during the day and raided at night; farm houses and survivalist “bug out locations”—too far from town for their victims to call for help. By switching to nocturnal activity, they found they could pick their targets with impunity.

Cameron hadn’t seen a glimmer of man-made light the whole time he followed them. He had no idea how they managed. His own night vision was so damaged by starvation, he was a stumbling wreck.

He found himself wondering what he’d do if they turned their attention to the little girl. Would he sit by and let them rape her? The asshole at the ghost town had said, “...or we take her as our toy.” Cameron remembered Leah’s words to him; cautious optimism not yet overcome by cynicism. “Are you the prophet here?” He pushed the thoughts from his mind. That kind of sentimental bullshit would get him killed.

Eventually, the bragging slowed, overtaken in three measures by snoring. Cameron considered hitting them right then.