Kat grabbed hold of one of the few remaining trees and pried at the lone drone leg wrapped around it. A blue-suited body impaled to the trunk collapsed as soon as she shifted the jagged metal. Kat snarled at the disemboweled Jihadi’s creamy black face. Somali or Nigerian? Not that it mattered.
“Just another local gun for hire. The Caliphate is taking over the world, but when was the last time you saw one of the real invaders?”
Dore peeled off the bloody but still intact futuristic body armor. “Who else would do the fighting? We destroyed three out of their six spaceships. There can’t be that many future psychos left.” He shrugged into the liberated gear and closed the young corpse’s terrified eyes, before wiping his own.
“It’s only going to get worse. As long as signing up with these fanatics is the only way out of the end of the world, there will never be a shortage of cannon fodder to recruit. I’ll bet you a week’s rations this kid doesn’t even know what country he died in.”
Kat pried the Jihadi’s portable rail gun out of the muck. Some helicopter blades thumped in from the north, the only friendly territory left.
“You getting soft-hearted, Captain? They volunteered to screw over humanity. I’m plenty happy to just keep feeding the cannons.”
“Kat, we beat the odds today, but we’re losing the war. We have to figure out a way to take the fight to the Caliphate if we’re ever going to win.”
“Who said anything about winning? I can sit up here killing these fuckers until the next Judgment Day. I’m happy with just getting some payback.”
Day Thirty-One
Alachua County Courthouse
Downtown Gainesville, Florida
Retina-searing halogen lights flicked on and snapped Dixon out of his tormented slumber. He threw off his bed sheet and sat up on reflex, but the handcuffs wouldn’t let him get far. It was so hard to keep track of the hours in his windowless crypt, but it didn’t feel like dinnertime yet. He peeked down at the catheter bag strapped to his cot. Barely a quarter full. Not time for that either.
His cell door swung open. Instead of a harried nurse or bored guard, four stone-faced strangers in Khaki pants strutted in. All sported shoulder holsters over their spotlessly clean polo shirts, each one stenciled with a Department of Homeland Security logo. The mercenary crowd parted, letting through a short, middle-aged man with glasses. Dixon forced a chuckle around his parched lips.
“Jesus! I’m hallucinating more than usual. Someone tell the nurse to lower my pain med dosage. Are you really wearing a business suit, Heinrich? Haven’t seen one on a living body in a long while.”
The balding man smoothed his red power tie and cocked his head. “So you know me already? Good, that saves time. After reading a mountain of intelligence reports about your rumored adventures, I feel I know you as well. You seem like the type of pragmatist that we can work with. Oh, and will someone uncuff him? He’s surely not going anywhere.”
Heinrich flicked a finger at the bandages encasing Dixon’s legs, from toe to hip. “Quit looking so grim. We don’t usually bother wasting our limited medical resources on enemy wounded, but my field marshal made an exception in your case. The doctor gives you a better than even chance of being able to walk again. Someday, at least. Let’s hope the investment pays off.”
Dixon swiped his IV-clad arm through the air and flopped his head back down. “Yadda, yadda. So you here for some payback? A little torture, perhaps? Wanna get your rocks off by trying to get me to beg for mercy? Bring it on, asshole. I’m up for anything that’ll break the boring routine around here.”
Heinrich tapped a folder of classified files against his chin and clucked his tongue. “Do you really believe I’m that petty? I guess you don’t know me after all. No, I’m not sore. Sure, mildly disappointed that most of your raiding force managed to escape, but mainly I’m impressed. Your little stunt cost me 1,500 experienced fighters and a considerable chunk of war material, not to mention delaying our carefully planned invasion, but that means little in the grand scheme of things. Those losses are chump change. We’re training hundreds of new recruits every day and bringing dozens of abandoned factories and workshops online every week.”
“Bullshit. You might have an endless supply of slaves and some generators, but there aren't any power plants still operating. No raw materials or transportation networks either. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. We both know there isn’t any heavy industry of any sort left in the country.”
Heinrich leered. “Do you feel up for a walk?”
One of the bodyguards slipped out to the hallway and rolled in a wheelchair. Two more dumped Dixon with his IV and catheter bags in the seat. They wheeled him away with all the tenderness of hauling out the trash. Dixon focused on memorizing every twist and turn out of the courthouse, not that it would do him any good. There was no ramp from the basement to the main floor. Only an elevator and staircase led upstairs, both secured with a functional keypad-lock and several hawk-eyed sentries.
Outside, Heinrich pranced around like a new mother showing off her precious. “Can’t you at least admit that you’re in way over your head?”
Mockingbirds chirped, dotting in and out of the Spanish moss dangling from the all-encompassing oaks snuggled around the government center. Dixon kept his poker face on but growled under his breath. Every last scrap of rubble downtown had been cleared out. Even the bullet holes in nearby buildings had been patched over. Heinrich and his entourage strolled through a gorgeous park adjacent to the courthouse, bragging the whole way about more wonders. Dixon squinted at a butterfly buzzing his head and barred his teeth at the blossoming flower gardens around him. Somehow these people even found the time to pluck weeds and cut grass.
One of Heinrich’s bodyguards jerked his chair to a stop at the next major intersection. A familiar cadence echoed downed the block. An endless stream of fighters, each shouldering a modern rifle and decked out in US Army digital fatigues, goose-stepped around the corner in perfect ranks. The entire formation tilted their heads in Heinrich’s direction and snapped off a salute as one body.
Heinrich blessed them with a broad smile and returned the gesture. He pressed his bent hand to his forehead until the last rank marched past, several minutes later. Dixon’s heart sank as he took in the “soldiers.” That silly high-stepping parade still contained more shooters than his entire Minuteman militia could ever muster.
His heart buoyed a moment later when the “military police” trailing the formation came into view. The pair of armored Humvees with machine guns on top could only serve one function. Dixon turned back to Heinrich and did his best to ignore the wooden gallows in the courtyard square. None of the hang nooses were occupied at the moment, but a few sobbing men and one young woman squirmed in medieval stocks next to the platform.
“Am I supposed to swoon over your slave army? Most of these hardcore troops look like they’re about to shit themselves. Do you think they’re willing to die for you? Hell, how many of your warriors would still be here if you turned your back?”
Heinrich’s smile stretched even wider. “Ah, good. You aren’t just a meathead. Well, to tell the truth, loyalty wasn’t such a thorny issue until your wannabe militia joined the fray. Until just a few weeks ago, the only choice a starving survivor had was either to join up with us or those bloodthirsty religious fanatics up north in Lake City. Your little insurgency has complicated the equation.”
“Uh huh. Doesn’t that say something? If a ragtag collection of hippies and farmers out in the boondocks represents such a threat, how strong can your make believe empire be? Once people realize there’s an alternative to Nazi or Theocratic rule, I’m not surprised that they’re voting with their feet. Only a matter of time until your minions rise up and stick your head in a guillotine. You should quit while you’re on top. Just take one of those planes of yours, fill it with supplies and find a quiet little island somewhere in the Caribbean. No one would come looking for you. Trust me. You wouldn’t be missed.”
Heinrich snickered. “My, my. You’re better than my own propaganda team. Yeah, yeah, I get it. I’m the big bad wolf. Mini-Hitler and all that jazz. Funny thing though, rebellion is the one problem I haven’t had to deal with since the Collapse.”
Dixon’s eyes bulged as Heinrich strutted over to a public water fountain. Never mind the shock of seeing the water flow, but Heinrich had the courage to drink from the stagnant bacteria well. The warlord winked again.
“What are your people using for potable water, way out there in the middle of nowhere? Still pumping the river by hand and boiling it? We’ve gotten most of Gainesville’s utilities back up and operating. Sure, the local coal-fired power plant is now running off biofuel and not nearly as efficient, but it gets the job done. Just take a look around. This is the revival of civilization. No matter how you feel about my methods, you can’t argue with the results.”
He waved at the bustling farmer’s market down the street. The shoppers kept their heads down whenever a Fed soldier passed, but they were all clean and fit. A few were even on the chubby side. Something Dixon hadn’t seen in a long time.
“Do you see anyone starving? Any signs of a cholera or typhus outbreak? Any bands of thieves and rapists roving around? Perhaps my discipline is a little extreme, but if you don’t like it, then you should head south. Go visit that Mad Max wasteland in the ruins of the big coastal cities and maybe you’ll appreciate what we’ve accomplished. You can’t have such a black and white worldview if we’re going to pull America out of the Dark Ages.”
Dixon pounded his fist against his chair’s armrest. “Oh, cut the crap. We somehow pull it off. We’ve kept the peace while still maintaining some semblance of humanity. The Minutemen have never killed anyone that wasn’t pointing a weapon at us first. Our town has even managed to hold an election, despite the chaos. So don’t blow smoke up my ass. I was in the FEMA refugee center way back when you were just the camp administrator. I’ll never forget the day you decided to set yourself up as a warlord. Yeah, I’ve seen your version of civilization, all right. In all its medieval glory.”
One of the staffers flocking in Heinrich’s wake handed the boss a clipboard. Heinrich scribbled his signature, a delicious grin spreading across his face with each stroke of the pen. “Oh, yes. The camp. Seems like a million years ago. Nasty as that business was, we never would have survived without imposing discipline. I had thirty-thousand mouths to feed, and only a few truckloads of supplies. What was I supposed to do? Freeloaders were more than just a nuisance; they were a mortal danger. I just struck first. Come on, how large is your commune? About 1,207 non-combatant members? You’ll need a firmer touch when you’re responsible for nearly a hundred thousand refugees.”
Dixon did his best to hide his surprise at Heinrich’s spot-on intel, but his goosebumps gave him away. Heinrich nudged his elbow.
“Don’t be so shocked. It’s my business to know my territory inside and out.”
Dixon twisted around in his chair and stared up at Heinrich. “Fuck you, you Goddamn lunatic. That’s still Free American territory. And what’s with all this ‘we’ business, anyway? Go ahead and hang me or whatever you’re planning. Let’s just get this propaganda tour over with.”
Heinrich wiped his brow and moved to the shade. He snapped his fingers at an ice cream vendor across the street. The old man behind the cart rushed over with a double-dipped cone and scurried away without asking for payment.
“Ah, that hits the spot. Want one? You know, I can deal with either naivety or stubbornness, but both at the same time is tiresome. General Dixon, do you believe my governor title is some type of joke, like your rank? Hubris, perhaps? This isn’t a mom and pop operation like your trading post. Everyone’s falling in line. Just about every surviving town and militant group from Gainesville to the Atlantic, and from the Georgian border to Ocala, is on board and paying their taxes.”
“Don’t you mean protection money?”
Heinrich shrugged around his cone. “Label it whatever you please, but we have resources that your confederacy can only dream of. So I’m going to give you one final chance to save your people. You’re more than just the highest-ranking rebel we’ve captured. If my spies are correct, you’re Rand’s right-hand man. Possibly even bed warmer… ah, but we have no time for gossip. At the insistence of my general staff, I’m willing to try out an exotic, new strategy.” He snapped his fingers.
Someone from Heinrich’s entourage stepped forward and dropped a tablet computer in Dixon’s lap. The screen displayed a map, but unlike every other he’d seen, this one had Federal territory shaded in from the Atlantic to Gulf Coasts. All the rebellious rural lands west of the Fed’s stronghold were gone. There was no trace of the hundred independent towns and thousands of homesteads in the Confederacy. Two broad red arrows, one lancing out from his former home and the other from Gainesville, wrapped the End Timer’s territory to the north in a pincer embrace. Another set of pink arrows, with a time stamp a month distant, soared south and gobbled up the lawless lands.
Heinrich tossed away his half-finished ice and seized Dixon’s shoulders. “Quit fighting the weather and ally with us. Our societies have more in common than you care to admit. We’re all fighting for order. I’ll even offer your town full autonomy in domestic affairs. Just pay your taxes and send your monthly quota of fresh troops and we’ll do more than leave you alone. You’ll be richer and safer than even in the pre-Collapse world. Stop scratching a living out of the swamps and dream big. Think long-term. If we unite, we’ll crush those religious extremists up north in days. We’ll pacify the rest of the state in weeks. From there, well… the world is our oyster. Will you help me save your people and rebuild society? Or do I need to fall back on my old habits?”
Dixon chucked the computer and smashed it in a hundred pieces across the street. “Enough with the bullshit threats. You’re locked in a three-cornered Mexican standoff. Maybe you have the combat power to crush either our Confederacy to the west or the Warriors of Christ in Columbia County, but not both at the same time. Whichever group you ignore will just swoop in and mop up after the fight.”
Doing his best to hide the searing pain, Dixon drew himself up as far as he could in the chair. “I have a better idea: a simple cease fire. Let’s set up a demilitarized zone and pull back our forces. Later we can negotiate the border’s final dimensions. I’ll even offer you everything east of the interstate as a sweetener. Once things settle down and everyone’s war fever has passed, I don’t see why we couldn’t work out a comprehensive trade deal. Perhaps even a mutual defense pact against the End Timers. You can get everything you want without shedding a drop of blood.”
Heinrich clapped his dour aide-de-camp on the back and bawled over laughing. “Now that’s rich. I haven’t laughed like that in weeks! Come now, Peter. This wide-eyed and innocent routine is wearing thin. You know damn well that peace is our number one enemy. The second these terrified survivors don’t have an external threat, they’ll all head off in different directions. Without a continuous and existential danger, the whole system would implode in hours.”
Heinrich yanked off his glasses and crossed his arms. “You should know as well as anyone that the war machine needs plenty of fuel. Invading your lands would be costly, sure, but it would be a bonanza if the End Timers took advantage of our weakness and counterattacked. We haven’t faced a serious threat in too long. Could you imagine if all of north Florida was a warzone? The epic chaos would drive every survivor within two hundred miles to our side. We’d double, maybe even triple recruitment. Either way, the final outcome for your ad-hoc union is not in doubt. The only question is how much fun will I have achieving my final victory?”
Dixon tried to match his psychotic smirk. “What part isn’t clear? Go fuck yourself. You want Armageddon so badly, then we’re more than happy to oblige. We’ll see who’s still standing in a week.”
Heinrich’s left eye twitched on full automatic, but he kept grinning.
&
nbsp; “I suppose this is the point where I should hold a gun to your head. Something tells me that might be less than effective against a guy willing to charge a machine gun nest with five gallons of napalm strapped to his back. Of course, that same courage gives away your biggest weakness…”
He nodded at his aide, who whispered something in a radio. The side door to the courthouse opened. Several Fed guards prodded eight men and two women in tattered Minutemen uniforms out into the street. All had sacks over their heads and their wrists were zip-tied behind their backs.
“So you value your comrades’ lives more than your own. Noble, but if that’s really true, then save them. There’s only one way. You can end this war today by just agreeing to talk with your boss, or directly to the Minuteman militia if she refuses to see reason. What’s it going to be? Peace or more senseless, preventable death?”
The guards lined the prisoners across the broad, maple tree-strewed boulevard, just fifty feet away. Dixon shook harder than the detainees as the sacks were yanked free. He locked eyes with the same boy from his squad that he once thought he’d saved. None of the prisoners squirmed or even showed an ounce of fear as they were forced to their knees. An armed Fed hovered behind each lamb, while another circled the line and recorded the whole show in high-definition detail.
Heinrich leaned in. “We’ve put them through several mock executions these last few days. They think this is just another propaganda video and that they’ll be okay. You say the word and I’ll make their dreams come true. You could all leave right now. What’s it going to be?” Heinrich’s aide-de-camp shoved his phone’s camera in Dixon’s face.
Dixon closed his eyes and nodded. “Okay, I—”
With one hand, Dixon spun the wheel of his chair backwards in a blur, pinning Heinrich’s foot down. With the other, he punched the warlord in his solar plexus. As Heinrich tilted forward, Dixon ripped the IV out of his arm and rammed the bloody needle at his captor’s left eye.
The Caliphate Invasion Page 33
