Mercy (The Night Man Chronicles Book 3) by Brett Battles (most inspirational books of all time TXT) 📗

If there is any question as to how she can listen in on the bugs with them being so many miles away from us, the answer is simple. Our bugs have cellular technology built into them. It’s basically like calling up a phone, which allows us to listen in from pretty much anywhere in the world. I don’t want to beat a dead horse but it’s more day-job tech.

We are almost to Taos when Jar says, “They’re finally leaving.”

“Did they get to say their goodbyes?”

“They did.”

By my calculations, we have a seventy-five-minute head start on them, which means, even if they take the faster route, we will reach Mercy before they do.

If you’ve never been to the western half of the country, you might not fully grasp just how open the land is out here. After we pass Taos, it’s pretty much all empty plains and mountains clear into Colorado. I’m talking miles and miles and miles of nothing but nature. You could fit dozens of Chicagos out here and still have room for more.

The border between states is marked by an old wooden sign that reads WELCOME TO COLORFUL COLORADO. A little while later, we cross the mountains. It’s not as dramatic a view as the ones seen from the road that passes between Denver and Grand Junction, but it’s still beautiful. When we come out the other side, the land before us lies flatter than any I’ve ever seen.

Welcome to the western edge of the Great Plains.

By the time we near Mercy, the open prairie transitions into tilled farm fields. We’ve also come far enough east that the Rockies have slipped below the western horizon, leaving nothing but flatland in all directions.

I grew up near both the ocean and the mountains in southern California, and I know from experience that if I go too long without being close to one or the other, I get a little antsy. It feels odd not to see land jutting skyward or to know the edge of the continent isn’t a short car ride away. What I’m saying—and I mean no disrespect—is I think I’d go crazy if I had to live someplace like this permanently. Of course, others might drive themselves mad growing up where I did, knowing the earth could start shaking at any moment.

We are all the products of where we grew up, I guess.

The small city of Mercy comes at you in drips and drabs at first. A farmhouse here and there. Then a few more, getting closer and closer to one another. Just past a combo gas station/convenience store, we pass a sign that reads:

MERCY

CITY LIMITS

ELEV 3598 FT

The town sits along a spur of the Arkansas River, the entirety of Mercy on the west side. On the other side of the river we see only farms. Along the main drag, we pass a row of fast-food joints, a dental office, and a place called Barkley’s Hardware Supply, where you can also rent a U-Haul truck.

The deeper into town we go, the older the buildings become. Most of them are well maintained, though a scattered few look empty and in need of work.

Downtown is centered around a quaint, two-story city hall building, complete with four Greek columns flanking the entrance. Next to this is Dornan Park, a lovely grass-covered area with a large gazebo where, I imagine, the high school band plays concerts on all the appropriate holidays. It sits beside the river and slopes down to the water.

If Mercy was any closer to Los Angeles, it would be crawling with film crews using it for commercials and TV shows and movies. It has that Middle America quality to it that Hollywood loves.

Most of the businesses appear to be open, and a lot of the people who are out and about aren’t wearing masks. I’m guessing the pandemic has either barely touched the town or everyone is in a state of denial. Coming from California where things are—shall we say—direr, I am appalled by and slightly jealous of these people’s innocence. Whether they want to admit it or not, though, no amount of disregard will keep the virus from coming.

Jar does a search for campgrounds and RV parks in the area. Turns out Mercy is not a big stop for vacationers, and the only official place for trailers and such is the Dornan Mobile Home Park, whose website says it has a few spots for overnight stays.

This does not appeal to me. Mobile home parks have permanent residences on site. Likely, a lot of them. And I’d be willing to bet the temporary spots for people like us are located at the rear of the property, and every time we leave or come back, we would have to drive by all the trailers. I’m not sure how long we’ll remain in town, but I would like to keep a low profile while we’re here. Dornan Mobile Home Park is not the way to do that.

Lucky for us, there’s a Walmart.

The superstore is located on the western edge of town. I park in an empty area near the northwest corner of the lot. After it gets dark, I’ll move to a less conspicuous spot behind the building, where we will be unseen from the road.

I hop out of the Travato and roll my Yamaha off the trailer. As I bring it around the side, Jar exits the camper, carrying our two helmets and a jacket for me. As much as I would like to take a break after the long drive, Chuckie Price apparently has a lead foot, and the hour-plus lead we once had on them has shrunk to twenty minutes, leaving us no time to relax.

I take care not to rev the engine too loudly as I drive us back through town. Even then, we get the occasional curious look from pedestrians and people in other cars. With a population of over twenty-six thousand, the town is