The Inroad Chronicles (Book 1): Legion Seed

by Erickson, Brian

  Ron’s path to success started with his very first case. Jerold Gustafson, or JG as people called him, returned home one day and collapsed to his knees in front of the smoldering muddle that used to be his home. Ron had gotten out of his car and seen JG as he slowly pushed himself to his feet and tugged on the sleeve of a passing fireman.

  “Do you know if my cat and dog were saved?”

  Ron would never forget JG’s misty eyes and tight face.

  The fireman shook his head and looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry. It lit up so fast, we weren’t able to pull much out.

  JG had just nodded and walked away, and then he came across a singed teddy bear on the grass.

  Ron had started approaching him and, like it was yesterday, could remember the way JG carefully picked up the doll and squeezed it a little while brushing ash off its nose; despite the jets of water still spraying down the skeleton of his house. He had let out a long sigh as a tear rolled down his cheek and closed his eyes. When he had opened them, he looked down at the teddy bear and said, “This was Esther’s. She named him Oscar. I gave it to her on our first date after the war in Germany before we shipped out.”

  After seeing that Ron had opened his small notebook he kept for jotting down ideas and observations and wrote—0 Susp.—a personal reminder not to investigate Jerold Gustafson for fraud. People did work in mysterious ways. Why a recollection about a teddy bear told him that JG truly lost his home to an accident, he could not fully explain, but if JG had flailed his arms and screamed, “Oh my God! My house!” Ron would have stuck to him like a leech.

  Back then, as an amateur, Ron could not imagine the experience he had yet to gain. He gradually grew suspicious of everything, which was when he realized that he had turned into a seasoned pro. Over the years the job had given him a sixth sense in lie detection and emotional misdirection. It was pretty simple. The guilty always ask about the money too soon, while they should still be grieving. The innocent always grieve first and money becomes a reality later as they work out their next step.

  Ron crouched forward in his chair and looked down at the document resting by his feet, which contained the most vital information for his current case. He blinked a couple times, grabbed his bag, scooped his blazer off the chair and swung it over his shoulder, and then walked out without looking back. He got in his car and glimpsed at the office building in his rearview mirror, looked away, and drove home.

  Ron turned into his driveway and let the car slowly coast to a stop. He stepped out and quickly scanned the neighborhood as he turned toward the house. Birds chirped from their perches in various trees, some leaves rattled as the bushy tail of a squirrel disappeared in a flash of gray, and sunlight dappled through foliage and coaxed some sweat onto his brow. Despite this, a small shiver ran down his spine. Where are the children? Where are their parents? Why isn’t anyone cutting their grass?Where in the hell is everybody? He listened for anything, and his fingers tightened around his keys as only the wind gently stroking the leaves greeted him. The squirrels and birds had never played so freely. A day with no people! He backed away slowly, scanning everything, and turned to go inside the house.

  Just as Ron went to step on the the porch, his eyes caught a shimmer in the grass. He looked closer and noticed footprints leading behind his house. It had rained recently, and the ground still felt soft and held the prints. He followed them around toward the back porch. As he passed a window on the side, he saw a pointy brown blur pass the window, and he smiled wryly before returning to the prints, pressing on with slow steps.

  He stopped and scanned the ground when he ran into a patch of several shoe impressions contained in a small area. And what did you decide to do next? His eyes followed the prints up to his back porch where he could clearly see dirty, wet tennis shoe impressions on the concrete leading toward and away from the back door. Amateur! He also found a big hand print on the backdoor's window pane. He looked through the window and saw a large fawn-colored head, about as wide as his hips, with floppy ears, and bright eyes staring back at him, and he smiled. Then that happened. He could not keep from chuckling to himself when he noticed the deep full sets of approaching prints, and the feint, stabbing half-impressions of the fleeing ones.

  The back door's window had saliva and large paw prints on the inside. His very big dog, Cassius, did not like intruders and did not let them get away with rudeness. A Bull Mastiff, a massive canine weighing in around a hundred and thirty pounds, could pretty much do whatever it wanted, but the sense of loyalty, common to the breed, held him in line. They were originally bred from Old English Mastiffs and Bull Dogs to help catch poachers. The breeders created the dogs to use their large size to pin them to the ground, and hold them until the authorities took over. Ron liked Mastiffs because, despite a short life span of only nine or ten years, they rarely bit people. At the same time the wrong action could trigger a strong urge to protect.

  Ron looked through the window smiling at Cassius who sat patiently on the other side of the door looking up at him through the glass with bright, expectant eyes. He quietly waited for it to open so he could bask in the pack leader’s presence; patience was another one of a Bull Mastiff’s great virtues.

  Ron returned to the front of the house and a quick glance around the neighborhood resulted in only the same eerie silence, and he quickly ducked inside the front door. Once inside he patted Cassius’ head as he scanned the living room. “Looks like you scared him off. Good boy!”

  He walked down a set of steps that appeared to lead to a basement, but when he reached the bottom, he pulled open a large steel door that swung open with all the urgency of a sloth scaling a tree. As he walked in he immediately entered a small storage room in the middle of the left wall and flicked on a light switch. The lights snapped to life and revealed an arsenal of guns and equipment situated on evenly spaced hooks and racks. Lining the walls, tidy shelves and drawers contained all of the ammunition necessary to support a unit of soldiers or a hunting party. Ron let out a sigh of relief as he looked around the subterranean set of rooms. What a disaster that nearly was!

  When Ron’s cases started going well and his workload increased, along with his pay, he had purposefully bought a house with a Cold War era radiation bunker installed instead of a basement. When he got to it, Ron found a dilapidated shell of a once great set of subterranean rooms built to withstand incredible blast forces. Best of all, a person could stay in it for weeks without changing the air, because it had an air recirculation system. After some research he found out people do not really breathe a high percentage of the oxygen found in air, but they have to get rid of the carbon dioxide expelled. Some air scrubbers to remove carbon dioxide, a vent, a large oxygen cylinder, and nitrogen could make for a very livable experience. Ron spent a lot of money making his bunker, affectionately named Defcon-1, into a survival experience. He could still watch TV in it, if available, indefinitely pick up radio signals, dispose of waste through a convenient and secure drainage system, bathe, eat, drink, sleep comfortably, and not come up for outside air for over a month, or much longer with extra oxygen cylinders.

  After checking all the rooms, he went into the center one and reached out and let his hand brush against the barrel of the jewel of his collection, the Israeli Tavor Tar-21 Integral in Black, the standard Assault Rifle of the Israeli military, and many others. It had a very unique design feature: it was invented with the power and range of an M-16 in mind but compacted into a low-profile weapon for commandos in urban combat by using a Bullpup design. Whenever it came to mind, Ron suppressed the thought of what he had paid for it and concentrated on his admiration for the weapon. It had an integral red dot sight that helped in all light conditions without the use of batteries, a rate of fire of 900 rounds per minute, gas operated, 4th generation night vision, a thirty round magazine, an adjustable barrel for sniping opportunities, and a maximum range of nearly a thousand feet all with incredible fire power. If he hated guns he would have called it a monster
, but as a gun lover it represented just the opposite—a savior.

  His eyes drifted over to his second-most prized weapon which offered maximum stopping power mixed with high technology—the fully automatic AA12 shotgun with a thirty-two round drum. The barrel reflected a gash of light and beckoned for him to pick it up, but he demurred, instead saving the pleasure for another time. This gun could wipe out a whole group of people with rapid shots, practically causing dismemberment. Also, with its rugged design, it would likely never fall apart. Made of big beefy parts, it resisted rust and all kinds of horrible weather including salt air and did not need a lot of maintenance, another savior.

  Ron reached down and picked up his final tactical gun and stared down the sight. Meant as a last resort the gun still possessed wicked power, the .45 caliber thirteen round Glock 21C. It had bores on the muzzle to release gases faster for less recoil which allowed the user to fire it more quickly in an emergency. This brawny hand gun could blow a person wide open.

  Finally, Ron cast his gaze on the only gun which regularly saw the light of day, his Benelli R1 rifle, which he took hunting as often as possible. He loved that it did not kick like a lot of other big game rifles, and it shot like a dream.

  In the center, between all of the guns, hung his Level IV body armor, which could stop armor piercing, high velocity rifle rounds. He picked it up as a sort of bonus in a black market transaction which, incidentally, was how he came to possess most of his collection. He needed his weapons dealer to stay under the radar. Uncle Sam didn't know what Ron was really ready for down in that bunker, and that was really the whole point.

  When justifying his collection to himself and how closely guarded he kept the secret, Ron often recalled a conversation he once had in a bar with a liberal pacifist.

  The pacifist, without learning any real truths about Ron, had been able deduce that their ideologies had as much in common as night and day. “How would you describe your approach to competition?” The pacifist sipped his beer as he looked without looking at Ron out of the corner of his eye.

  Ron had smirked a little at the question and quickly wiped it away. “I consider myself a survivalist at heart, I guess. I believe life relies on adaptation.”

  “Are you anti-government or anti-establishment?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. I believe in the core values of freedom, democracy, and the American way; not the version that is constantly emphasized on TV whenever some politician reassures the people that America is still the greatest country on Earth, but we need to give up our guns so the government can protect us, which never works.”

  “I believe we'd have peace without guns.”

  “Of course you do. I believe we'd have peace if somebody evil pulled a gun out in public intending to massacre others, but lasted two seconds when other people with guns defended themselves. I believe the problem is helpless people without guns may, at some point, suffer under the tyranny of somebody with a gun and bad intentions. You know, the founding fathers drafted an amazing thing in the Constitution, but we’ve spent decades steering away from it while being told everything's fine, but we need to lose some freedoms. That’s what I don’t like so much.”

  “Well, that does sound somewhat anti-government.”

  “Well it wouldn't if they upheld the constitution instead of pissing on it and selling our country under our noses. Look, I believe strongly in the principles this country was founded upon. What I worry about is if the federal government can always deliver on those principles or necessarily will.

  “You’re not one of those militant, nutty, preppers are you?!” He had laughed after the question.

  Ron had smirked and rolled his eyes. “Haven't seen any “militant” ones yet but no, I’m none of those things.” Not as far as you’ll ever know! “I’m not paranoid about it or anything. As a matter of fact you’ve gotten me thinking more on the subject than I have in years probably.”If you can believe that. “It does fly in the face of everything I stand for, though, to sit around completely ignoring the problems, just in case.” At that moment Ron had checked his cell phone. “Good talkin’ to ya’. Excuse me, I need to return a call.” After that, he had walked off with the phone raised to his ear.

  No matter how much Ron prepared and planned, it never felt like enough. What if I’m just not lucky? What if I’m out and something happens, and I have to race home, but I don’t make it in time? Sometimes, while he listened to his friends talk, or heard a coworker’s story about a bogus insurance claim, he wondered: do they have any idea I’m not listening? That I’m actually thinking about the impact force it would take to knock down my blast door, or how long I can go without new air in my bunker, whether all my guns are cleaned and ready, enough food and water…? It always abruptly snapped him back into reality when somebody stopped talking and started staring at him. Ron had grown accustomed to simply playing it off when that happened with a short chuckle. As a rule, he never discussed his preparations with other people, and always tried to blend in with the herd. He knew that if he shared any of it with the average person, they would not see the logic of it and take it the wrong way, thinking him insane, and perhaps even calling the police. If the unthinkable ever did happen: a dirty bomb, a canister of anthrax, an old Soviet warhead, or even a full-scale invasion, the same general masses might perish while he survived.

  The finishing preparations leading up to Chesapeake’s Child had driven him out of bed minutes sooner the past few mornings with weak knees and an upset stomach that only subsided once he started working. Is everything ready?

  Ron replaced his pistol to its position on the wall, turned the light off, and went back upstairs. As he reached the top he looked over at the TV and started to reach for the remote then pulled his hand back. Just for a little while, then I’ll do somethin’ better with my time. He pressed the power button and the volume kicked in first while the screen remained black, “Asteroid Strike! Are You Safe?” Ron rolled his eyes as he sat down. How do people not get sick of that? He sat on the arm of the couch. Just for a minute.

  Two hours later, fully prostrated on the couch, he finally peeled himself away from the screen and mashed the power button on the remote with more force than necessary. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket to check the time. When his eyes saw the numbers roll toward noon they sharpened. Damn it!

  He got up and began preparing himself a sandwich when a low hum drummed up in the left pocket of his pants. He reached down and answered his phone. He listened to what the caller had to say, and simply responded, “Excellent.” He ended the call and exhaled audibly. One last criminal purchase and it’s finished, finally! Badass weapon and no more money, here I come.

  The meeting was set for that evening, so he decided to go out and buy some more last-minute items and move some things downstairs into the bunker. That would keep him busy for the rest of the afternoon. He was not sure what he would do the next day, perhaps just sit around and watch the news roll in and try to stay positive, two things that normally did not go together.

  ✹✹✹

  That evening Ron drove down a dark, quiet road and passed a blue sign that read in large white letters: “LEAVING SCUPPER. THANK YOU! AND GOD BLESS YOU.” He shook his head. I still hate that stupid sign. He turned onto a state road and settled in for a thirty mile drive west.

  After a quiet cruise down a stretch of road where the forests formed an inspiring canopy over the highway, Ron saw his turn and got on a small, country road going by a diminutive, old south town. Ron loved little places like it. Something that larger towns and cities in the south no longer possessed lived on in these hamlets, nice people, good, simple, cheap food, classic Victorian and Georgian architecture, farms, small businesses, and rustic streets that still put up 1950’s style Christmas decorations after Thanksgiving. He just loved them. Although, tonight he had to pass it all up and drove to a road snaking through the woods to meet a man with a special piece of inventory.

  He saw headlights in
the distance that he assumed belonged to his arms dealer on such a remote road. Ron touched the brakes and came to a stop with a little skid on the slippery, dirt path bringing up a brown parade of dirt and dust dancing through the headlights’ wash. He took one last long breath and exhaled forcefully before putting his pistol in the back of his pants against the small of his back and got out of the car. Can’t be too careful. He walked toward the car as the other man got out. Ron skimmed him over without obviously looking.

  Before him stood a tall, lithe man, built much the same as he, but with slightly unkempt shoulder length hair, black as night. His pale skin seemed to glow in the moon’s bathing light. Ron felt the same lump in his throat as he had the last time he had seen him. He always kept one thing in mind around this man, no sudden movements.

  “Got the money?” The dealer let the words slide off his tongue and wore an oily smile.

  Ron noticed that he had his right hand concealed behind his leg. He reached into the large pocket on the side of his cargo pants and slowly pulled out a small plastic bag full of bills. He handed it over for inspection and stood patiently staring at the money as the man quickly leafed through the cash in the bag. Satisfied? Now show me my damn weapon!

  The dealer looked up from the bag with a nod and a smile and tossed it into his car. “Yer makin’ the right choice here, Mister. The world’s fucked and we’re all goin’ with it, might as well have a little more fight’n ye’ than the other feller.” He smiled as he found his keys in his pocket and pressed the remote to pop the trunk, never breaking his gaze or turning his back. His lips pulled back into a vicious grin that revealed a top row of black, rotten teeth. “Come have a look. She’s the purtiest girl in the whole, damn school.”