He paused and turned his head to the side, staring out through the bars of the cell. “They talked about us in the media like we're some mass-murdering madmen. But the only people we've ever killed were defectors, traitors to our cause. We hunted them down, because a traitor is worse than a dog. And I love dogs. So, you see, my intent was never to be a 'murderous cult' as the papers described. What we did… that was justice.”
“What does the First Order want?” James asked.
“Control...” Julian began. “Dominance. And we've always been clear about our goals. What you see in this prison, the followers it took decades to establish? I did it through earning their trust and promising that one day, this prison would be ours. And soon after, we'd have even more.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a notepad and pen and tossed it on the mattress next to him. It was the same one James had been given before. The symbolic gesture was obvious, it was time to start writing. He then walked out of the open cell, stopping to turn around. James gripped the pen in his hand, prepared to stab Julian, but he could barely stand up straight.
“Patience, James,” Julian said, pulling the gate shut. “In time, everything will be in its right place.” He stood for a moment before walking away.
It was dark outside the cell, already evening. Every day had been a painful blur of abuse at the hands of the merciless captors. They were trying to break his spirit, wear him down to nothing, and turn him into a mindless drone. Or maybe they were torturing him for no reason beyond their own enjoyment. James fell back into the mattress, drained. His left eye had swollen up. Every movement hurt. His ravaged gums were cut all over, but at least the bleeding had stopped. He soon closed his eyes, dreaming of the moment he could escape his hellish imprisonment and return to Marla once and for all.
The following morning, James was taken to the outside courtyard and placed against the wall, handcuffed at the wrists. Across from him stood a few of the guards, wobbly and beaten as he had been, and all handcuffed as well. It was the first time he had been allowed outside since being captured, the first time he had seen other captives. But he wasn't taken out there to relax. There was some type of training planned. At least twenty inmates had gathered outside, forming a group as Brant took center stage to address them. James stood to the side and watched as he was told to do. He wasn't sure if he had been brought out there to take notes or simply listen. He didn't much care either way. He'd been underfed, beaten, and malnourished for days.
And there seemed to be no end in sight to any of it. He recognized the courtyard from before with its concrete walls, blocking views outside the prison. There were broken bottles all around that still hadn't been cleaned from fight night. He hadn't seen the officers who had been paraded on stage for the spectacle and didn't think he ever would. A rumbling echoed through the gray, overcast sky above. The chilled, bitter air only added to James's desperate mindset.
Having been brought outside, his first impulse was to run, and he began looking for an opportunity. The hole he had cut out in the gate was most likely still there. He watched the stage as Brant began to address the group. It didn't seem as though anyone was watching James. He could inch his way across the courtyard and then turn and run. He took a cautious glance around, looking left, right, then up, and all his hope dissolved. Julian had placed his own guards in the towers above. There were at least four of them, watching the area with binoculars.
James lowered his head, cursing under his breath. Tighter security measures must have been put in place following Larry’s and his breakin. Larry was never far from his mind. He kept thinking that at any minute, he'd see a roundish man in overalls with a white beard storm the gates with the sheriff and dozens of other able-bodied fighters. However, the realistic part of his brain told him to stop imagining things. No one had come. He didn't think they ever would.
Brant displayed his rifle to the group, talking loudly. “We're getting organized, gentlemen. Winter is upon us, and we've got to assemble teams to raid the countryside for supplies. Winslow can only provide so much. We've got to branch out and make our presence known.” He then pointed his barrel upward and fired a loud, startling shot into the air. “Bullets. We only have so many bullets, so don't waste them like I just did. If so, you'll lose your gun privileges. Simple as that. Now, it took a lot of work to take this prison. Lots of blood has been spilled to do so. Since the first week after, we've been having fun. Julian now wants us to be more disciplined.”
He then signaled behind the stage where a small group of inmates exited the building and walked outside, all armed with rifles. “We've done supply runs. Now we have to step up our game.” He paused as the group of armed men walked around to the front of the stage and stood in a straight line. “Starting today, we train raider teams. These are single, self-sufficient teams who can cover a lot of ground in a short amount of time. This training includes navigation, long-distance travel, and most importantly, proficiency with a firearm.” Brant stepped forward, voice booming. “Sound good?”
“Yeah!” the men cheered with their fists in the air.
“Now, listen to me. This comes from the top,” Brant said as they quieted down. “We do not indiscriminately kill people. We do what we can to defend ourselves, but it's all about the supplies. The key is to grow our numbers and spread our influence. This is a precise, ordered approach that will soon put the entire state of Missouri under the First Order.”
James glanced over to the three prison guards and tried to get their attention, but they seemed to be in their own world. Brant continued to instruct the mob. “We have to train tactically, to practice securing locations using the element of surprise.” He walked across the stage, an impressive figure in his long black coat and fedora. “The people will provide for us. They will help expand our reach. Of course, none will do so willingly, and that's why we send them a message.” He then walked off the stage, toward a building to their right, with several doors and windows, all darkened inside.
“I want groups of five here, led by your team leader, with him out in front of you.” He clasped his hands together and got everyone moving, despite the rolling thunder in the sky. James looked at the guard towers, sensing once again an opportunity to run. The men in the towers seemed to be looking out beyond the prison yard and over the fence. The crowd below began to disperse toward the random storage building behind the stage. James waited as he saw the three guards being led over by a man with a gun. Perhaps they had overlooked him, and there was no better time to escape.
He inched away, sliding his back against the wall. He was prepared to sprint, even if his legs couldn't take it. Tomorrow, or the next week, they might be weaker. A hand suddenly slapped down hard onto his shoulder, stopping him. One quick, panicked turn to his right and he saw Devin looking at him with a tight-lipped grin of amusement. “You going somewhere?”
“Yeah, I need to piss,” James said.
“Too bad.” Devin linked an arm around James, leading him to the group with the others. “You can wait. Now, pay attention. Don’t move.”
James limped along. The officers didn’t even look at him. His swollen eye, puffy cheeks, and bruised face were nothing out of the ordinary. The men had gathered in groups of five as Brant stood by instructing them. It was like watching a militia train its foot soldiers, and maybe that's what they were. Devin released James and pushed him next to a large wooden crate, telling him to stay. James reluctantly sat down on one, his hope of escaping almost gone. Besides worrying about his own safety, he needed to warn the sheriff and the others about the raid the First Order was planning. Most importantly, he needed to find Marla and let her know that he was still alive.
“We never make ourselves known beforehand,” Brant was saying as he continued his instructions. “We work together as one functioning unit where everyone serves a role. We protect our brothers.” He paced along the concrete walkway, pausing to gather his thoughts. “This, my brothers,” he continued, “is the
opportunity we've been waiting for. The First Order will reemerge, just as Julian promised. But we must be well-trained and prepared for the slightest resistance in these new times. We seize, we plunder, we take all that we want and then we do it again.”
“What about some more ladies?” one of the inmates shouted, hands cupped at his mouth.
The group hollered in approval at the very mention. Brant nodded and smiled.
“Yes, women. Of course.” His smile soon faded as he shifted to a more primary topic and adopted an admonishing tone of voice. “Don't forget where your true allegiance lies, and that's with the First Order. We've had female converts. Several are in prison right now, or perhaps leading their own revolution. Concentrate on your training. All good things will come to those who wait.”
He then waved the trainees over to the corner of the building as they took positions behind strategically placed crates and other obstructions. It appeared that Brant's speech was over. James watched as one team of five men stormed inside the building, sweeping from room to room, only to be told to return outside and start over.
As James observed them from afar, a thought crossed his mind. If he did earn his place among the First Order, there was a chance he could infiltrate them, thus stopping their plans to pillage the area and destroy the church. They had to be stopped. Devin stood nearby, rifle always in hand. His blond hair was parted completely to the side, hanging partially over his right eye. He circled in front of James, a look of suspicion on his freckled face.
“I bet you think you're smart.”
James thought to himself and shook his head. “Not at all.”
“I can see you plotting,” Devin continued. “We all do. Julian may think we can change you, but I'm not holding out for you.” He took one step forward and leaned down, inches from James's face. “And when the time comes, I'll be glad to be the one to take you out.”
James looked away, not saying a thing. He felt the long, almost useless instrument inside his pocket, where his pen was. Devin continued to taunt him with new threats as James carefully moved his cuffed hands, slipping one awkwardly inside his pocket.
Devin said, “What I'd really like to do is to find that wife of yours,” Devin said, laughing. “Nice piece of ass that she was. I don't care what you say, I don't think she's dead. And when I find her, I'm gonna give her the high hard one all night long.”
In an instant moment of rage, James pulled the pen out and drove the sharp point directly into Devin's neck, jamming it as hard as he could. James sprung up, pushing the pen inside as Devin stumbled back, gripping his rifle in shock. Just as soon as the pen was driven in, Devin yanked it out, tossing it on the ground. The guards watched, not helping. James tripped and fell back onto the crate, as Devin attempted to call out, enraged.
A black gash had opened on his neck, blood flowing in a pulsing trail. His finger went for the trigger of his rifle as his eyes widened in absolute rage. James closed his eyes, ready for the inevitable. But once again, it didn't come. Instead, Devin brought his rifle back and once again batted it against James's head, knocking him out cold. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. The guards began to turn around, curious, though none of them looked surprised.
13
The Fall
Two Weeks Later
In the days that followed, James had dreamed about escaping. Sometimes, he woke up in the middle of the night, believing that he was back home with Marla lying next to him. It seemed real, until he felt the concrete wall against his back. The cold, dark prison had become his new home. He was given rations at most twice a day, and word was that the prison's food supply was running low. The teams had been training to hunt for more supplies through looting and pillaging. Julian had promised them paradise.
Everything they had experienced in their lives, the events that had brought them there, were a valuable part of their training and a test of their endurance, he told them. The victors of the new world would reap its benefits. Julian was telling James the same thing. The suffering he had endured at the hands of the cult was a test. Julian had also told James that he would be one of them soon enough. And if he refused, they would have no use for him.
They gave him a prison uniform and kept him in the cell most of the time. The beatings had become less frequent. However, James lived in constant fear of what each day would bring. He didn't think the punishment would ever end. It had been over a month since the EMP attacks. His incarceration, however, felt like years. It was morning when he woke in his cell to the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.
He rose up in bed, nearly hitting the bunk above him. He could see the dim sunlight coming in through the windows downstairs and the moving shadows getting closer to his cell. He could only imagine what they wanted with him. Two familiar faces stopped outside the cell, gleaming with sadistic smiles. It was the two people he had come to hate the most, Brant and his lackey, Devin.
James stepped out of bed in his tattered prison uniform and stared at them. His own hair was thick and disheveled, and he had close what might be called a beard by now, patchy as it was. He said nothing to them as they observed him with glee.
“Good morning,” Brant began.
“Morning,” James said.
“Do you know why we're here?” he asked.
James shrugged and in a brief show of defiance, he turned away, went to the stainless steel toilet, and urinated for a good thirty seconds. He turned around, hiking his pants up, and stood at the foot of the bed. “You were saying?”
Neither man appeared amused, as the smiles disappeared from their faces.
“Julian wants to speak with you,” Brant said.
“So, get your ass moving,” Devin said.
James nodded while leaning down to retrieve his shoes. Sitting on the bed, he slipped his shoes on and drank water from a tin thermos they had given him. He set the thermos down and wiped his mouth, intentionally taking his time with every movement. He was beginning to care less and less about what they did to him. He was tired of being afraid. The cell door slid open, and Brant handed him a pair of handcuffs to put on.
“You know the drill,” he said.
James reluctantly took the cuffs and snapped them around both wrists with his hands in front of him. He really didn't understand the point of it by now, except to further humiliate him. He walked ahead. glancing at the bay floor and seeing two guards just waking up in their cells. The third guard, Sergeant Barton, had died the other night in his sleep from what appeared to be a heart attack. They were given no cause but could assume it was from his injuries.
James feared the other two would suffer the same fate if things kept going as they had. It angered him that the power grid had yet to be repaired and control had not yet been brought to areas. Where were the police or the military? Where was anyone? James felt abandoned and left to die. He walked down the steps and reached the bottom floor, prepared to go down the right corridor. He had a series of fresh notes for Julian and assumed that was the reason for their meeting. Brant and Devin then grabbed both his arms and pulled him in the other direction.
“What is this?” James said. “Aren't we going to Julian's office?”
“Not today,” Brant said, leading him toward the left corridor.
James stopped in place and shoved against them. “No... I'm not going there.”
They pulled him back just as hard. James tried to twist from their grip but couldn't get free.
“We'll get you there one way or another,” Brant said, grunting.
As James twisted and turned, screaming, Devin pulled out a nightstick and held it inches from his face. “Want another lump on that thick skull of yours?”
James calmed himself as his resistance faded. They pushed him forward, holding both arms, as they continued down the left corridor. He'd been through there before but only once, when they had strapped him to the dentist chair. “Where are we going?” he asked, panic rising in his tone.
“You know where,” Brant sa
id.
“Time for your check-up,” Devin added.
James stopped in his tracks, pulling back once again. “No! I'm not going. Kill me if you want.”
He jerked one arm out from Brant's grip and nearly pulled himself free from Devin. His losing battle came to an end quickly, however, when Devin swung his nightstick against James's back, knocking him down.
James fell to his knees, paralyzed from the pain. No sooner had he fallen than they lifted him back up, cursing, and led him down the darkened hall, lined with closed doors to the rooms on both sides. He fought them the entire way as much as he could before they opened the door and pushed him inside.
James slid on the tile and stopped in place, fury and fear taking hold equally. As before, an empty chair awaited him, with a nearby tray of gleaming dentist tools on it. Standing by the chair were Julian and Dr. Miller. James stood frozen as they welcomed him. The door shut behind him. Devin and Brant positioned themselves on both sides of the chair and leaned against the wall, rifles at the ready.
“What is this?” James said, swinging his head back to Julian. “I thought you said—”
“Calm down, James,” Julian began. “It's merely a harmless check-up.”
James pointed across the room at the supposed dentist, dressed in a smock with a cap and surgical mask covering his face. James stomped his foot, enraged. “You're not strapping me to that fucking chair again.”
Julian exchanged glances with Miller and then looked back at James, seemingly disappointed. “After all this time. After all we put him through, he still resists us.”
Miller shook his head in agreement. “That's too bad.”
James stood defiantly in place and pointed at them both. “It's not happening, so you're just going to have to shoot me.”
“James...” Julian began, unconvinced. “Just stop.”
“You've got my allegiance. How many times do I have to say it?” James continued.
Hideaway (Book 2): An Emp Thriller Page 14
