Honor Road - Jason Ross (phonics story books .TXT) 📗

the hog rodeo. He didn’t wait to see if anyone would notice him. He sprinted forward and slid around the side of the barricade with his rifle at the ready.

All but two of the rats took rounds. Mr. Loudmouth Leader surrendered, throwing down an SKS rifle, and raising his hands above his head. Mat’s men moved in and overtook the blockade.

Jesus Cabrera waited until the leader’s arms were zip-tied behind his back, then he smashed the douchebag’s nose with an elbow.

Mat shouted, “Cabrera! You’re with me and Mr. Loudmouth in the deuce-and-a-half! Jesus and Rickers.” He turned to the deputy. “Take the cruiser. We’ll leave the other cruiser here for now.”

To Rickers he rasped, “You’re on point. Don’t stop until we hit the checkpoint. GO.”

The pigs had run off the field and into the tree line. One rat dangled around a hog’s neck, stabbing it like a prison fight. The running, squealing pig shucked him off and disappeared into the trees. Another man shot a pig with his nine millimeter to no apparent effect. Somehow, someone had gotten a single pig on the ground and a brawl broke out over the carcass.

Rats one. Pigs forty-nine.

Even hungry and desperate, people were no match for the pigs. Eventually, the refugees would probably get most of them in the stew pot, but it’d take time and ingenuity. In any case, Mat’s team had bought back their lives with those fifty pigs. There was little doubt how the Zulu siege was going to end.

Mat did a tactical reload and hoisted himself into the driver seat of the deuce-and-a-half. The big truck had been idling this whole time, wasting fuel. Mat rocked it into gear, punched the accelerator and lurched for town.

“Juan, make sure those new guys withdraw to McKenzie with us. Radio the northeast checkpoint, and have them call in at least twenty more guards in case the mob gets any more big ideas.”

As Cabrera completed one radio call, Mat gave him another, “Radio McKenzie HQ and have the next shift start now for all checkpoints. Double coverage. Have HQ warn the hospital we’re coming in with Smith. Someone’s going to have to tell the family that Chuck Junior’s dead.” Mat would give anything not to be that guy.

There was a moment when he feared the heavy vehicle might stick in the wet gravel. Mat pushed the deuce through a loose spot in the half-deconstructed highway. The wheels caught and in a few seconds he was grumbling toward the safety of town. He mashed the gas pedal to the floor, but the deuce barely noticed.

After what he’d just seen—countless thousands of rats, pouring toward the promise of food—how safe was town, really? How long until the rats made their big push?

It wasn’t just the ringing in his ears or the war drums in his raging brain stem; Mat had landed in the middle of an unwinnable fight. McKenzie would inevitably fall, like the Battle of Isandlwana when the Zulu crushed the mighty British with 20,000 spearmen. Everyone here would die—either at the hands of the refugees or in the famine that would follow. The winter had only just begun. The hunger could only get worse, all the way through April.

Mat needed to put a shine on his personal exit strategy or this contract would be his last. He’d hoped, at least, to stabilize this place and leave them with a fair, fighting chance. He owed Caroline at least that: to leave her brother William in a good home, preferably with a wall around the town. At that moment, Mat couldn’t see it happening—couldn’t make the numbers work in his head.

A quarter-finished HESCO barrier around town. Thousands, maybe tens of thousands of famished refugees. Very few guns and little ammunition.

Mat thought of himself as being pretty damn clever, but big numbers have a power all their own.

Juan Cabrera must’ve read his mind. “We need a better plan, Sarge.”

Indeed, thought Mat. A better plan for the town and a better plan for Mat Best.

Fifty-five minutes after the ambush, Mat knocked on the open door of Sheriff Morgan’s office. He walked in without waiting—still a little rattled and adrenaline-drunk. Sheriff Morgan looked up from the conversation he was having with a man Mat didn’t know.

“Here to debrief?” Sheriff Morgan smiled grimly at Mat. “How’s Smith? Can they save the eye?”

Mat shook his head. “The doc didn’t think so. Smith asked me to tell you he’d be back on duty tomorrow. I don’t doubt he means it.”

“The man’s got grit,” the sheriff agreed.

Mat continued his interruption. “I sent a team to reconnoiter the ambush site. The cruiser’s gone; probably stolen for its gas. We’re going to need some kind of wrecker to get the pig hauler back on its tires. It’s blocking the whole road.”

“What the hell happened out there?” The sheriff knew the outcome, but he hadn’t been briefed.

Mat flicked a glance at the man sitting across from the sheriff.

“This is Jim Jensen,” the sheriff explained. “He’s our kids’ science teacher. I’ve asked him to join the security committee. He has some ideas about chemical weapons.” You can speak freely, the sheriff seemed to imply.

Mat hadn’t “spoken freely” with anyone since Caroline’s death, and he already didn’t like where this was going. He’d gone to war to stop Sadaam Hussein and chemical weapons, and it put a bad taste in his mouth to even hear them mentioned on American soil. He accepted the man’s outstretched hand for a handshake. The science guy didn’t stand up to greet him, which was strike two in Mat’s book.

“We’ve met,” Jensen said. “His younger brother William comes to my class.” Meeting Mat’s eyes the science guy said, “Good to see you again.” Mat had no memory of ever meeting him.

Mat moved on to the sheriff’s question about the ambush. “We had bad operational security. The rats knew where and when to hit us. I underestimated them by putting the convoy trips on a fixed schedule. They’re organizing.”

“Okay,” said