Scavengers Read Online Free
Author: Christopher Fulbright, Angeline Hawkes
as well. Digger’s bullets slammed into the sergeant’s face. The rear of his head exploded.
Bal Shem’s face was painted with the sergeant’s blood and globules of brain matter. His countenance shone hideously in the strobing lights.
Bal Shem untwisted his cuffs from the neck of the dead officer and bolted across the parking lot, toward the field and forest behind the North Star Motel.
Digger slumped, screaming, beside the body of Groves, their radio screeching loudly in the car.
CHAPTER 3
By one in the morning, military convoys rumbled into Hunt County blocking all roadways leading in or out. The lockdown happened so quickly even county officials were bewildered with the mobilization. Phone calls resulted in news that this was bigger than the Governor of Texas or anything the state had to do with it. The orders to enact martial law and seal the county came straight from Homeland Security and, presumably, above. National Guard troops were seen directing traffic away from the county on roads opposite the Hunt County lines.
As the town awoke from its slumber, shocked citizens stumbled outdoors in robes and slippers to retrieve their morning papers and watched jeeps full of armed soldiers bumping over their residential streets. Mostly the county residents stood on the side of the road gawking. A few of the more ballsy cowboys tried to pry some information out of whatever solider was nearby, but the standard answer was “more details will be forthcoming in the afternoon.”
At 6 am, Dr. Matthew Robbins drove into the Dairy Queen parking lot for his Saturday morning coffee with the old timers. Always observant, he hadn’t missed the patrols of soldiers or the jeeps and tanks blocking access to the exit and entrance ramps to the interstate. Robbins put his Cadillac in park and straightened the back of his sports coat as he got out of the car. The lot was pretty much deserted with the exception of a few familiar employee vehicles and the battered pick-ups of his coffee buddies. All retired Air Force, and, with the exception of himself and Burt Hill, all retired period. Burt was a family practice lawyer on the other side of town determined to work until they dumped his cold, dead ass in the ground. Robbins was the head of emergency medicine at Hunt County Memorial Hospital in Greenville, and a trusty gut feeling told him this was going to be one hell of a day.
Best get my coffee and take what normalcy I can get.
Robbins opened the heavy door of the restaurant, the tied-on cowbell clanging the glass pane. The scent of bleach from the freshly mopped floors mingled with the smells of bacon, sausage gravy, and coffee. He looked over the red and yellow plastic furniture, toward the tired waitress, Gloria. Pot of coffee in hand, she hovered around his group of friends, piled into the three booths along the back wall. An ice cream poster hung on the wall above them, one corner drooping for lack of adhesive.
Hoover looked up and waved him to the back of the restaurant, a serious expression causing the wrinkles on his stubbly cheeks to crease even deeper. The men paused in their conversation to greet him as he slid into a vacant seat.
In the corner of the restaurant, near the two iron candy machines that always took quarters but never produced gumballs or sour chews, sat two soldiers, whispering over steaming mugs. They looked as tired as Gloria.
Robbins nodded in the direction of the soldiers. “Who’re the grunts?” he said to Hoover.
Before Hoover could reply, Gloria plunked a mug on the table and filled it too close to the rim. Black coffee sloshed over the top onto the gold-speckled tabletop. She pulled a dirty dishtowel from her apron waist and mopped the spill. “Sorry ‘bout that, Dr. Robbins.” She glanced over her ample shoulder. “I guess those boys got me nervous.”
“Not a problem, Gloria. You know I’d swim through a puddle of coffee if you made it.” He winked at the aging waitress.
Bal Shem’s face was painted with the sergeant’s blood and globules of brain matter. His countenance shone hideously in the strobing lights.
Bal Shem untwisted his cuffs from the neck of the dead officer and bolted across the parking lot, toward the field and forest behind the North Star Motel.
Digger slumped, screaming, beside the body of Groves, their radio screeching loudly in the car.
CHAPTER 3
By one in the morning, military convoys rumbled into Hunt County blocking all roadways leading in or out. The lockdown happened so quickly even county officials were bewildered with the mobilization. Phone calls resulted in news that this was bigger than the Governor of Texas or anything the state had to do with it. The orders to enact martial law and seal the county came straight from Homeland Security and, presumably, above. National Guard troops were seen directing traffic away from the county on roads opposite the Hunt County lines.
As the town awoke from its slumber, shocked citizens stumbled outdoors in robes and slippers to retrieve their morning papers and watched jeeps full of armed soldiers bumping over their residential streets. Mostly the county residents stood on the side of the road gawking. A few of the more ballsy cowboys tried to pry some information out of whatever solider was nearby, but the standard answer was “more details will be forthcoming in the afternoon.”
At 6 am, Dr. Matthew Robbins drove into the Dairy Queen parking lot for his Saturday morning coffee with the old timers. Always observant, he hadn’t missed the patrols of soldiers or the jeeps and tanks blocking access to the exit and entrance ramps to the interstate. Robbins put his Cadillac in park and straightened the back of his sports coat as he got out of the car. The lot was pretty much deserted with the exception of a few familiar employee vehicles and the battered pick-ups of his coffee buddies. All retired Air Force, and, with the exception of himself and Burt Hill, all retired period. Burt was a family practice lawyer on the other side of town determined to work until they dumped his cold, dead ass in the ground. Robbins was the head of emergency medicine at Hunt County Memorial Hospital in Greenville, and a trusty gut feeling told him this was going to be one hell of a day.
Best get my coffee and take what normalcy I can get.
Robbins opened the heavy door of the restaurant, the tied-on cowbell clanging the glass pane. The scent of bleach from the freshly mopped floors mingled with the smells of bacon, sausage gravy, and coffee. He looked over the red and yellow plastic furniture, toward the tired waitress, Gloria. Pot of coffee in hand, she hovered around his group of friends, piled into the three booths along the back wall. An ice cream poster hung on the wall above them, one corner drooping for lack of adhesive.
Hoover looked up and waved him to the back of the restaurant, a serious expression causing the wrinkles on his stubbly cheeks to crease even deeper. The men paused in their conversation to greet him as he slid into a vacant seat.
In the corner of the restaurant, near the two iron candy machines that always took quarters but never produced gumballs or sour chews, sat two soldiers, whispering over steaming mugs. They looked as tired as Gloria.
Robbins nodded in the direction of the soldiers. “Who’re the grunts?” he said to Hoover.
Before Hoover could reply, Gloria plunked a mug on the table and filled it too close to the rim. Black coffee sloshed over the top onto the gold-speckled tabletop. She pulled a dirty dishtowel from her apron waist and mopped the spill. “Sorry ‘bout that, Dr. Robbins.” She glanced over her ample shoulder. “I guess those boys got me nervous.”
“Not a problem, Gloria. You know I’d swim through a puddle of coffee if you made it.” He winked at the aging waitress.
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