William Johnstone - Phoenix Rising

Robert Varney

Chapter One

John Hughes had what is called a very structured personality. Every morning he had one soft-boiled egg, a dry piece of toast, and half a grapefruit. He drove to work by the same route every day, and crossed the intersection of Greer and Elm at exactly the same time. That’s why he was passing Elmer’s Liquor Store just in time to see Elmer being shot.

“Charley, listen to this and tell me what you think,” Bob said to his dog. He read the opening paragraph aloud. “Is that a grabber?”

Charley was lying under the desk with his head on Bob’s foot. This was the normal position for writer and dog when a book was in progress. But that was the only normal thing about the setup. Bob was writing this book on a typewriter, and he knew this book was going nowhere.

His agent had told him that he need not waste his time writing any of the three books that remained on his contact, but his agent didn’t understand. Bob didn’t write because it was his job, Bob wrote because he had to write.

He returned to the book, listening to the tap, tap, tap of the keys, remembering that sound from years ago and, oddly, being comforted by it, as if it could take him back to another time and another place when things were as they should be.

As he continued to write through the morning, the pages began to pile up on the right side of the typewriter, and he remembered that as well, recalling the sense of satisfaction he got from watching the pile of pages grow. He had mentioned to his father once how he enjoyed watching the pile of pages grow, and his father, who had been a farmer, compared it to watching a crop being “made,” as in “Are you making any cotton?” It’s funny, Bob didn’t realize until now, how much he missed watching the pile of pages grow. Seeing the word-count number increase at the bottom of the computer screen was never the same thing.

From his office he could see the Gulf through the front windows and Mobile Bay through the back windows. He saw a boat about a mile offshore and figured it must be a fishing boat. Was he catching fish to eat? Or to barter? Probably a little of both, he decided.

“It is good to see you writing, again,” Ellen said, coming up behind him and putting her hands on his shoulders.

“You do realize that it is a complete exercise in futility, don’t you?” Bob asked.

“Not futile,” Ellen said. “It doesn’t matter that it isn’t going anywhere, it is restoring a sense of balance to our lives. It gives the illusion that everything is as it was, and I need that. We need it.”

Bob lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “We were born twenty years too late,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

“If we had been born twenty years earlier, we would more than likely be gone by now, and we would have left the world while it was still sane.”

“What’s going to happen to us, Bob?”

“Nothing,” Bob said. “We’re going to ride it out and, in the long run, we’ll be okay. Just don’t be planning any trips to New York or Chicago. Or even into Gulf Shores,” he said.

“Maybe I’ll start my romance novel,” Ellen said.

“Ha! You’ve been saying you were going to write a romance novel for the last forty-five years.”

“I know, but other things kept coming up,” Ellen said. “This time I’m going to do it, for sure. I’ve got a bunch of yellow tablets and a bunch of pencils. And the time to do it.”

“Good for you,” Bob said. “You start it. If you need help, just ask.”

Fort Rucker—Wednesday, August 1

Jake and Karin were the last two to leave Ozark and head out to Fort Rucker, the others having left two days earlier. They were halfway to the post when they saw a pickup truck with a trailer, crossways on the road, blocking any possibility of passage.

“I wonder what this is?” Karin said.

The truck and the trailer were both filled with furniture, bedding, boxes, barrels, and crates.

“Looks like someone is trying to move all their belongings,” Jake replied as he stopped the car and put it in park. “My guess is they were trying to turn around and got hung up with the trailer. I’ll see if I can help.”

Getting out of the car, Jake started toward the pickup truck. That was when someone stepped around the front of the truck. The man was wearing black pants, a black T-shirt, and a black headband. He also had a holstered pistol strapped to his belt. That didn’t concern Jake—many had taken to wearing pistols since the total collapse of the republic. Jake was also carrying a pistol, but it was under the flap of his shirt and so not immediately visible.

“Can I help you?” Jake asked.

“Oh, yeah, you can help me,” the man replied.

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, it’s like this. You see this truck? It don’t have enough gas in it to even get me back to Ozark. But seein’ as you was drivin’ your car, it looks to me like you do have gas. So what I’m goin’ to do is, I’m gonna give you a can and a rubber hose.” He put his hand on his pistol and patted it a couple of times. “And what you are going to do for me is siphon out all the gas that’s in your tank and fill this can.”

Jake pulled his pistol and pointed at the man. “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

“Whoa, I didn’t know you were carrying,” the man said, holding both hands up, palms facing Jake.

“Apparently not. Now, I’m going to ask you real nice to get that truck off the road and out of my way,” Jake said.

To Jake’s surprise, the man dropped his hands and chuckled. “You don’t seem to understand what’s at stake here,” he said. “I don’t know if that pretty little woman back there is your girlfriend or your wife, but if you don’t do what I told you to do, my friend is going to put a bullet through her head.

Jake turned back toward his car and saw that Karin was now out on the road, standing just in front of a man who was holding a pistol to her head. This man, like the one who had confronted Jake, was wearing black pants, a black T-shirt, and a black headband.

“Better do what my friend says, mister, unless you want to see this woman’s brains on the highway.”

“You would shoot an innocent woman over a can of gasoline?” Jake asked.

“Oh, yeah, you can count on it,” the man replied.

“I’m sorry, Jake,” Karin said. “He must have been lying in the ditch alongside the road. I didn’t see him come up.”

“Let her go,” Jake said, pointing his pistol at the man who was holding his gun to Karin’s head.

“Ha! Is that pistol supposed to scare me?” the man replied. “You’re a good sixty feet away from me—I’m only about six inches away from your woman. You really think you are good enough to shoot me, without hitting her?”

“How about those Kentucky Wildcats?” Jake asked.

“Say what?” the man with the gun replied.

“I like the cheerleaders,” Jake said.

“Man, are you crazy or what? Can’t you see I’ve got your woman here? Now are you going to fill that gas can or . . .”

At first Karin was confused by Jake’s comment; then she smiled as she knew exactly what he meant. Suddenly Karin did a backflip, vaulting completely over the head of the man who was holding a gun on her.

“What the . . . ?”

That was as far as the gunman got because as he turned toward Karin, Jake took his shot. Blood and brain matter spewed out from the entry wound in the temple.

Because Jake had turned to take his shot, his back was now to the man standing in front of the pickup truck.

“You son of a bitch!” the man yelled.

Jake whirled back on the would-be gasoline thief, shooting him between the eyes even as the man was bringing his own pistol up.