Music City Macabre: The Low Lying Lands Saga: Vol. 1 by Bob Williams

to lie next to me. She wasn’t touching me, but she was close. Without thinking I put my hand to her head and patted her. This is all new to me. I still didn’t love the name Lexi, but the dog looked old enough that a new name would confuse her. “I’ll make the effort, Lexi.” Her eyes shifted to me and her look said, I’m with you now. I started to cry. I’m pretty sure I know exactly why. The crying turned to a straight up heaving, balling, snot fest of sobbing. This was forty-eight hours in the making. At that point, Lexi did get up and come closer. She licked my face and told me it was going to be OK. We both fell asleep shortly thereafter.
    I woke up the next morning sore as hell from the hard floor, but feeling pretty good. Hungry again. I noticed Lexi sitting by the wedged door and, with a low growl, she made it known she wanted out. This was going to take a while to get used to. I grabbed my Glock from the floor and we made our way into the lobby. Nothing jumped out as being any different from the evening before, but you can’t rest on your laurels. I instructed Lexi as best I could to stay with me as we checked the remaining offices and bathrooms. The place was clean.
    Lexi and I bonded over a piss together, then we retrieved our morning meal of Ramen noodles and a couple of bananas. I boiled water, more a precaution than anything, and gave some to Lexi before bottling the rest up for the trip to Nashville. My phone signal was a no go, so the atlas told me it was about a hundred and thirty miles.
    I didn’t know what to expect from a potentially indeterminate car ride with a new canine travel partner, but this was how it was going to be from now on, so I guessed I had better figure it out.
    It took no time at all to hook up with interstate 24, and we were on our way. I was shocked by the easy passage on the interstate once we crossed over the state line. We were making great time. I had the window down on the passenger side and most of time the dog had her head out the window. As we came into Clarksville the CB, which is always receiving, I suppose, came to life with some bizarre chatter:
    “ You…living soldiers...where do...go?”
    “Where...you?”
    “...Skeleton...window...two...cabins here.”
    “Go up fifty yards to the parking lot, hang a left, chief.”
    “Who’s on this channel?
    I grabbed the handheld and jammed the button “Hello! Hello! My name is Prescott, over! Who is this? Hello! Again my name is Prescott. I’m 60 miles or so from Nashville, over. I’m looking for friendlies.”
    Dead air.
    I hadn’t intended to sound as desperate as I did, I was just caught off guard. That was so weird. Who were those people? Where were they? In Nashville?
    “ Prescott. Repeat, Prescott. This is Michael Cole, formerly of the United States Army, and I represent the Murfreesboro Safe Zone. The Network says your name is good, so please be advised. The Nashville Safe Zone has been destroyed. One hundred percent casualties. In this part of the country, if you’re Freak, you are dead. Over.”
    I felt a rush of adrenaline surge through my body. I replied, “I read you loud and clear Mr. Cole. Uh...please...uh, advise me where I should proceed to get...uh...hooked up with you guys. Over.” Not the most beautiful words ever spoken but it got the job done.
    “ Do you have a map?”
    “Yes I do.”
    “Ok, well. Forget it. I need to get you here quick as possible, so listen closely”. He gave me very detailed directions and told me he and an associate would be waiting in a camouflaged Dodge Ram in front of the Italian restaurant called Carrabba’s. “ The interstates and roads are fairly clear. So we’ll give you three hours and hope you’re here. The Network says you’re good. Not sure why you’re here, but we can talk about that later.”
    We signed off. I turned to Lexi, who was looking at me intensely. “I love it when a plan comes together,” I said to her as I rubbed her behind the ears.