by Kyle Pratt
Franklin pushed thoughts of the general, Burton, grieving families, and death from his mind. “Corporal Briscoe, who’s the senior soldier with your platoon?”
“Ah … Lieutenant Wesley and Sergeant Donahue are both dead, sir.”
“I didn’t ask that, soldier.” Franklin stood and released an angry sigh. “Who is in charge here right now?”
Briscoe hesitated. “That would be me, sir.”
He leaned back and raised an eyebrow. This girl, woman, was just a few years older than his son, but she had led the soldiers to secure the perimeter. She had stepped up when duty called. “Corporal Briscoe, show me the deployment of your soldiers.” Franklin turned to Lieutenant Poole. “Interrogate the prisoner, and if pain is needed to make him talk, let me know.”
Poole’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir.”
Briscoe led Franklin upstairs. “The second floor is mostly offices with windows. There’s a soldier watching from each one.” As they walked down the hall, checking each room, she added, “We’re stretched thin, but we have the food warehouse covered.”
They strode outside, crossed the dark street, and entered another building where three soldiers watched the rear of the distribution center from two windows. Inside the warehouse, a militia member peeked out through a broken window. The soldiers near Franklin sprayed the window with gunfire, shattering the remaining glass, and the traitor disappeared.
Briscoe ended the tour on the roof of a building that looked down on the main door of the food warehouse. Just as she had said, from windows and rooftops, soldiers covered every exit with multiple angles of fire.
“Good,” Franklin muttered. The Sovereign Militia would pay a high price if it attempted to leave. “Did you position these soldiers?”
“Yes, sir,” Briscoe said hesitantly. “Most of them.”
Franklin nodded. “How many militia remain in the building?”
“About a dozen trucks fled during our assault. I don’t think that many are left.” Briscoe led him around the corner and back into the motor pool through a side door.
Reviewing the placement of the soldiers in his mind and Corporal Briscoe’s overall disposition, Franklin knew the fight here could wait. Gunfire continued in the housing area. He turned to Briscoe and, in a voice loud enough for all the soldiers to hear, said, “You’ve done an excellent job, Sergeant Briscoe. You have my full confidence. Hold this position until we return.”
She saluted. “Yes, sir, but it’s Corporal, sir.”
Franklin returned the salute. “Don’t argue with me, Sergeant.”
A grin widened across her face. “Yes, sir!”
“Do you have a radio?” Franklin asked.
“Yes, sir.” Briscoe frowned. “The general’s radio.”
“What platoon are you?”
“We’re survivors from several units, sir.”
“Okay, I’m designating you Whiskey Team for the duration of this fight.” Franklin turned to Lieutenant Poole. “Gather Alpha and Bravo Teams and get the address of every soldier here who has a local family. It’s time to find our loved ones.”
Hooahs resounded throughout the building.
Day Twelve
Portland, Oregon, Thursday, September 15th
James nudged the back door of his on-base home and it squeaked open several inches. He froze. Mom would have made sure it was locked. With Emma beside him, he stood on the steps, trying to listen for movement inside the house, but the gunfire and shouts mere blocks away made it all but impossible. After several moments of hearing only those more distant noises, he pushed the door wide open and they tiptoed inside. “Stay by the door.”
“I’d rather stay with you,” she whispered.
“I don’t know what’s inside. Give me the flashlight.”
She passed it with an angry grunt.
Leaving her behind wasn’t a great choice, but taking her into a dark house where armed looters or militia soldiers might be waiting seemed like a worse option. At least at the back door she could run away from the house or into it.
Edging forward, James fingered the flashlight. Turning it on would give away his location, but it might be useful as a weapon. “Mom,” he called weakly. “Logan?”
No answer returned.
He crossed the house to the open front door. When he tried to close it, he noticed the splintered latch. He held his breath. Someone had broken in.
With even greater caution, James continued searching the house. Flatware and plastic bowls were scattered on the kitchen floor. He bumped into a jar and it skidded away. I need a light. As the words flowed through his mind an idea took form. He found a flimsy red plastic storage lid and used a steak knife and scissors to cut a red lens for the flashlight. It cast a weak, but usable light.
The fridge door was open with nothing left inside. The MREs were gone from the pantry. A tight knot of despair settled in his gut as he checked the upstairs.
His room and Logan’s looked normal, messy, but with nothing out of place. Last, he entered his parents’ bedroom and recalled the storage chest in the corner. His parents never talked about it, but he knew the shotgun and ammo were stored there. He didn’t know where they kept the key, but he could break in.
The latch hung open. Clothes and old blankets lay in a heap beside the chest, with the false bottom on top of it all. The gun and ammo were gone. He did a quick search around the rest of the room, and then returned to Emma. “The house is empty.”
She touched his hand. “Where’re your mom and Logan?”
“I don’t know.” He felt glad the house was dark and hid the tears that welled in his eyes. “We can rest here awhile.” He pushed the couch against the front door and the two sat on the floor with their backs against it. For several moments, James didn’t speak, afraid his voice would crack and reveal his fears.
Emma wept softly.
James wrapped his arm around her, drawing as much comfort from her as he tried to provide.
“Is there any food in the house?”
“No, it’s all been taken.”
Emma took the flashlight and walked to the kitchen. James watched as she checked every bit of the room and the pantry. She picked up a ketchup packet from the floor, opened it, and sucked out the contents.
He recalled these last few days when she had eaten every crumb of food they shared. Everyone felt hunger, but was she starving?
Emma grabbed another ketchup packet, and then another, and sucked the contents from each. When finished, she drank the last drops of pickle juice from a jar.
“Squad one, on the left,” an unfamiliar voice from outside ordered. “Squad two, on the right.”
Emma dropped to her knees and crawled back to James. “Could it be your father’s soldiers?”
“I don’t think so.” James peeked out the front window. Light from a flashlight swept the yard. “They’re probably part of the militia that attacked. My dad isn’t supposed to be back yet. We’d better get out of here.”
A vehicle rumbled down the street.
Together, James and Emma crawled to the back door and hurried into the darkness.
* * *
Nearly an hour passed as Franklin and his soldiers searched for their families. They found some, like Marge Sattler and Julia Gray, but mostly they encountered angry looters ransacking homes and a few militia thugs. As Franklin’s soldiers pushed deeper into the housing area, the mob fought, but the militia used the darkness to hide, evade, and pull back toward the far end of the base.
Franklin jumped from the Humvee as it pulled into his driveway. He reached the porch before the vehicle stopped.
The screen door squeaked with the night breeze.
Two soldiers from the Humvee hurried to join Franklin while others combed both sides of the street.
Franklin touched the knob of the front door and it slowly moved away from his hand. “Carol!” He shoved the door against something heavy. “Carol!” With pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other, he pre
ssed his shoulder against the door and forced his way into the house. The couch had been moved against it. “Carol! Logan! James!”
Gunfire boomed a few blocks away, but no sound came from within the house.
Rankin and two other soldiers followed him inside. They swept their flashlights through several downstairs rooms.
“Another empty house,” Rankin declared. “Where is everyone?”
Franklin ignored them and rushed to the kitchen. The door hung open on an empty fridge. A few open condiment packets and empty jars were scattered on the floor. He completed his check and hurried upstairs, taking two creaking steps at a time.
All the rooms were empty.
Where was his family? Had they survived the attack?
The storage chest in the master bedroom had been unlocked and the clothes dumped aside. The shotgun and ammo were gone. Next, he turned to the dresser where Carol had hidden a pistol beneath her underwear and bras. The lingerie had been pushed to one side and the pistol and ammo removed.
He looked around the dark room. Carol, where are you?
Steps sounded behind Franklin and he turned as Lieutenant Poole entered the room. “The soldiers have cleared to the end of the street. One of the scouts reported a large crowd a few blocks from here. He says it looks like two gangs are fighting near the church.”
“Let’s move in that direction, but clear as we go, and leave fourth squad in the rear. I don’t want armed groups coming up behind us.”
“Yes, sir.”
Poole rejoined Bravo Troop and Franklin returned to his soldiers, but fear for his family clawed at his mind. Sergeant Keller commanded the squad on the opposite side of the street, with Lieutenant Poole on the next lane. All around him soldiers checked homes.
Midway down the block, three unfamiliar men in uniform ran from a house. Their arms were burdened with cloth bags and rifles.
“Freeze!” Sergeant Keller ordered.
One of them dropped his bag and raised a rifle.
All three men died in a storm of gunfire. Several glass jars shattered on the sidewalk while others rolled on the lawn.
Franklin walked across the street as soldiers surrounded the house.
“Seven,” Keller growled.
“What?” Franklin asked.
“That’s how many we have killed. Four civilians and now three militia.” Keller shook his head. “The world has gone mad.”
Franklin sighed. “Driven mad by hunger maybe.”
They walked to the bodies sprawled on the lawn. Keller shone his flashlight on each body in turn. Darkness hid most of the blood from the wounds. He focused the beam of light where the American flag should have been on their camo uniforms. Instead, they wore the crossed rifle insignia of the Sovereign Militia. “Traitors.”
“Take their weapons and ammo.” Franklin stared at the house.
Keller did and pulled a radio from the vest of one of the men and passed it to Franklin. “This might come in handy.”
“If it works.” Franklin adjusted the squelch and it crackled with static. “And if they don’t talk in code.” Despite his verbal reservations, he felt better having it. “Continue clearing this street.” He gestured toward the home the militia had been in. “I’ll take Rankin and Kohen with me and see why these guys lingered here.”
“Yes, sir.” Keller motioned for his soldiers to advance.
Franklin slid the transceiver into a pocket as he entered the home, followed by the two soldiers.
In the kitchen, Franklin pointed his light at jars of home-canned food neatly stacked on the counter. He examined several containers of vegetables and meats then walked to the back porch. A greenhouse and raised garden beds still burdened with produce filled the small backyard.
Rankin approached. “Nothing upstairs.” He looked out the back window. “Looks like a nice garden.”
Kohen hurried toward them. “Two people shot dead in the garage, an old man and woman.”
“Why kill them?” the private asked. “For the food? How did they know it was here?”
Kohen shrugged. “In better times, like those of two weeks ago, people didn’t keep gardens a secret.”
Franklin thought of the information Burton had provided to the militia. Were there other spies on the base? “Maybe they had a list of targets,” Franklin snarled. “Let’s rejoin the others.”
As they exited through the front door, the militia radio crackled. “Enemy units are approaching the church. Begin phase two.”
“The militia is nearby and we’re being watched.” Franklin looked up and down the street. “Let’s get back with our people.”
* * *
Carol Franklin looked out the broken side window of the church sanctuary. Outside, the crazed mob fought each other over scraps of food stolen from nearby homes. When the gangs had poured down her street, breaking into houses, killing, and stealing, she had decided to leave rather than fight. Many had made the same decision, but now she wondered if that had been the right choice. With only the shotgun, pistol, and the food they could carry, she and Logan had run to the church.
Where was James? She didn’t know. On top of her usual concern for Dirk, she felt torn between worry for James and now Logan, curled tight under a nearby pew with his hands pressed over both ears.
When they had arrived, they found about a dozen people already there. Now nearly two hundred huddled within. Two windows to her right, a large, football lineman-looking man with dark crewcut hair used a pistol to help defend the group, but weapons were few and the mob numbered in the hundreds.
Perhaps it had been the right decision; at least they were still alive, but now a fire had started near the front of the church. On the other side of the heavy wooden doors, several men fought the growing flames in the vestibule. Smoke flowed between the doors and hung heavy in the air.
For some reason, the mob had become convinced that an enormous stash of food had been stored in the church.
A boom thundered. Shards of glass rained down beside Carol.
“Just give us the food and we’ll go,” someone shouted from outside.
Carol peeked out at a group of five armed men. “Don’t come any closer,” she muttered. “I will kill you.” They kept coming and she fired the shotgun. It slammed back against an already tender shoulder.
One man screamed and they all ran for cover behind a nearby car.
Hunkered over, Pastor Duncan shuffled among the pews, praying and providing water from several canteens. “How are you doing?” he asked Logan.
“I want my dad,” he whimpered.
“I’ve been praying that your father or other army soldiers would find us. I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can.” Hunched low, he hurried over to Carol. “How are you doing?”
She was tired, sore, frightened, and worried for her family. She didn’t even want to think about the fact that she had just shot … maybe killed, a man. She wanted to cry and give up, but for the sake of her terrified son, she couldn’t … she wouldn’t. “I’m okay.”
Duncan offered her water.
Carol drank several mouthfuls. “We’ve been hoping the mob would leave or help would come.”
Duncan nodded.
“We need to be more proactive, but what can we do?”
He thought for a moment and then a grin grew across his face. “I have an idea.” He hurried away toward the church vestibule.
* * *
The clamor of battle rattled in his ears as Franklin rushed to rejoin the platoon. Ahead on the left, Franklin spotted the old brick church. Smoke poured from the steeple like a chimney, but despite the fire, someone rang the bell again and again, but not to tell the time like it had done before. These tolls were a plea, a desperate one, for help—but from who?
Two nearby burning homes cast a yellow light over the area. Franklin stayed in the shadows as he led the others back toward the platoon. A few yards ahead, three cars had been rolled or pushed into a line. Keller hunkered down behind one vehic
le, talking with a civilian woman, with a baby in her arms. The woman reached over and gently touched the bandage on Keller’s face.
His wife? Kathy? No, Katie. Had she or the baby been wounded?
Guns thundered and fire crackled as other soldiers advanced by using trees, mounded flower beds, and cars. Franklin led Rankin and Kohen toward Keller and his wife.
Across the street, a civilian ran out of the shadows and into a driveway where a large silver-gray SUV sat. He held something in his hand. A gun? No. A flashlight?
The church bell rang again and again.
“Freeze,” Rankin shouted.
Franklin recognized the civilian—his son, James. A blonde-haired girl followed close behind. Emma? They stopped for a moment and then pivoted and ran. “Hold your—”
Rankin fired.
“He’s unarmed!” Franklin slapped the rifle barrel down. “James,” he bellowed.
His son collapsed into the darkness between two homes. The girl slowly lifted her hands and then held a trembling pose.
The air caught in Franklin’s throat. Was his son alive? His heart pounded as he ran to James. Memories of the general’s slow and bloody death filled his mind. Would he relive that now with his son? A bullet tore along the sleeve of Franklin’s jacket, just missing the flesh below. Without pause, he bent over to make himself less of a target and scurried on.
Tears flowed down Emma’s face as she struggled to keep her hands in the air.
Franklin dashed past her, grabbed his son into his arms, and pulled the gasping boy into the firelight.
James opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.
“Medic,” Franklin yelled. He gazed up and down his son’s slender frame but didn’t see any wounds. “Are you okay?”
James opened his mouth again. Still, no sound came forth.
Kohen ran to Emma. “You can drop your arms, Miss.” Then he guided her into the shadows of the building and out of the line of fire.
“Where’s Bickel?” Franklin looked about but didn’t see her. Rankin remained on the other side of the street. He would deal with him later. Returning his attention to his stricken son, he said, “I’m going to turn you over and look for the wound.” Franklin placed one hand on his son’s shoulder and another on his hip.
