Apollo Project

by Brittany E Brinegar

  “Alright, say he was. Why did you kill Junior and try to kill me? Why not go after Jon?”

  “Because Jon knows things. More than he’s told you I’m sure. But Junior, he was running his mouth too much. I hoped to keep my little radio a secret but then he told you and the whole thing spiraled.”

  “Speaking of the radio, why don’t you take it from your backpack, nice and slow?”

  “Nah. I’m gonna hang on to it.”

  Reagan’s finger hovered near the trigger on her Glock. “I’m not going to ask again.”

  “Or what? You’ll shoot again? You’re not a killer. Even in the face of death you only managed to graze my leg.”

  Barreling from the woods, Scotty tackled Nate Campbell. Both men crashed to the ground like trees. Scotty punched him in the face a few times but the ranger fought back, wrapping Scotty in a headlock.

  Reagan fired her gun into the air and the tussle stopped. “You’re done, Campbell.”

  Scotty elbowed Nate Campbell’s nose and drew his .45 like a cowboy in a quick draw. “Now about the radio.”

  “You’re going to have bigger problems than me in a few minutes.”

  Reagan slipped a worried glance to Scotty and shifted to Nate Campbell. “Meaning what, Berkman?”

  “Bees.” He added a buzz for effect. “I led you to their source.”

  Scotty retrieved the radio from Nate Campbell’s pack. “Putting you in their line of fire too.” Scotty passed the radio to Reagan.

  She flicked it on for a few seconds but heard only static. She stuffed the radio in her pack, confident Travis Wayne could work on it. “Alright, Pinocchio. Where’s this source you’re talking about?”

  Nate Campbell wagged his finger. “Telling you the exact location wouldn’t be much fun, now would it?” He smiled, revealing lines around his face. “Or maybe it would since you don’t seem to trust me.”

  A low buzz drifted across the lake. The noise, faint at first, danced in Reagan's head like a figment of her imagination. The power of suggestion. But as seconds ticked, the looming hum grew.

  “Guess he wasn’t lying about this.” Scotty motioned his gun at the Ranger. “What do we do with him?”

  “We don’t have time.” Her heart thumped as the buzz intensified. The searing pain assaulted her neck. Blood coiled in her ears.

  Scotty cringed as the pain hit him. He covered his right ear but held the gun in his left hand. “You’re coming with us.” He spun to face Nate Campbell. “Where’d he go?”

  Reagan holstered her gun. “It doesn’t matter. We gotta run.”

  Without warning, the buzzing stopped. Scotty’s shoulders relaxed. “Are they gone?”

  Reagan adjusted her backpack and pointed at Scotty’s head as the bees hovered above him. “Not quite.”

  “Of course.” Scotty fired his gun at the swarm of bees, angering them. “How’d you defeat them before?” he asked scurrying after Reagan.

  “Fire and hairspray.”

  “Granddad’s?”

  “You and I can outrun them,” Reagan said. “Last time we were carrying Annabeth.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Chapter 28 – Follow the Leader

  Tom

  Tom maneuvered into the middle of the squabble. “Alright, let’s settle this. There are good points on both sides, but splitting up yesterday did not work. We go to the airfield as a group. We drag old Hunter along and if some of his people come at us, we use him.”

  “I don’t have a group,” Hunter whined. “It’s me and my brother.”

  “I got Hunter, Yank. I’ll be right behind him with this riot gun at his ear. This thing will blow his head clean off if necessary. Or if my finger slips.”

  “He’s crazy.” Hunter shuffled with his arms tied behind his back and his feet tied together. “He wants to shoot me.”

  Emerson crouched in laughter. “And I thought the movie was corny. Turns out it’s playing the same.”

  “Well I hope if we get in a shootout, it keeps heading the same way,” Tom said.

  “You two want to fill us in on the joke?” Davidson asked.

  “It’s a long story.” Tom fingered his ripped fishing shirt.

  “We’re discussing the subplot of a John Wayne movie,” Emerson said. “Me and Yank are amusing ourselves in the midst of this here tragedy.”

  Dixie guffawed. “Well in the meantime here in Blazing Tree/Snow Falling in Summer/Weird Green Cloud/Crazy Guy Shooting at Us Land, we’re not amused.”

  Barb delivered the teacher glare to her daughter. “Brevity is necessary at times. As is your sarcasm. We have to keep those things and our humanity. We’ll get through this.”

  Tom heaved a pack on his shoulder. “We should get to the airfield in two hours. It doesn’t feel quite as hot out there today. Perhaps we can make good time before the temperature rises.”

  “And before we’re chased by another of Moses’ burning bushes, or the snowflakes, or the possessed Home EC teacher.” Dixie shrugged. “What Mom? I thought my sarcasm was needed.”

  “It’s never needed,” Davidson huffed. “You let her and her smart mouth run too long, Barb.”

  “Enough,” Tom growled. “Let’s go.” He knew Barb found amusement in Dixie’s rants in the real world and it bugged Davidson to no end. Scanning his ragtag group, Tom made eye contact with Hibbert. “Doc, any theory about the burning trees? I watched them last night and I’m not sure we have to fear the fire burning low. It stays up top and except for an occasional falling limb, we should be able to scurry on our merry way.”

  Hibbert removed his glasses and put the tip in his mouth. “I think you hit on something. It did behave in such a manner. Yes, I think you’re right.”

  Tom addressed the others. “Listen, if the trees catch, don’t panic and scatter. Follow as a group on the road and keep a steady pace. I’ll watch for falling debris.”

  Before marching a dozen steps, a form behind the corner of the store nipped into sight. All guns pointed within a half-second. Robin’s Glock, Davidson’s Smith and Wesson, Tom’s rifle, and Emerson’s shotgun aimed at a stocky man in a uniform.

  “Whoa,” the man said, his hands bolting for the sky. “Didn’t mean to startle you folks.” He hopped on one foot as his lower right leg oozed blood.

  “Are you a park ranger?” Genevieve asked.

  From the corner of his eye, Tom glanced at her. “What makes you ask?”

  “He has a patch on his shoulder. Two large elms with an eagle soaring and it says ‘park ranger’. I have pretty good eyesight.”

  “Is she right?” Tom narrowed his eyes and steadied the rifle. “You a park ranger?”

  The tan hat sat askew on his head and his shoulders cocked to one side. While his posture remained loose, wrinkled lines on his face hinted at signs of concern. He carried a bulky green jacket, not exactly standard for a ranger in southern Louisiana in August. Grime covered his army green cargo pants and tan button up-shirt. The bloodstain on his pants grew in an amoeba-like pattern.

  The Ranger’s voice sounded like Andy Griffith. “That’s right folks. I’m a park ranger for the Sabine Wildlife Refuge. I’ve been wandering out here for a couple of days.”

  “Did you get shot?” Davidson kept his gun leveled at the man. “It looks like a gunshot.”

  Tom put the park ranger’s age between forty to forty-five. Still a youthful chubbiness, but weary surrounded his eyes. He noticed something familiar but dismissed it when the face of Phil Mickelson came to him. The resemblance fit and lessened his thoughts of seeing the man before.

  “Put the backpack on the ground,” Tom commanded.

  “Sure.” The ranger dropped the pack and motioned to Davidson. “It’s a flesh wound, but yeah, somebody took a potshot at me. From a good way off. They stalked me for a while. I found my way here. I assume it wasn’t you folks?”

  “No, someone shot at us too.” Barb frowned under Tom’s scrutiny. “But I guess the boys have some more questions for y
ou.”

  “You better believe it,” Davidson said. “The last guy we trusted on this little adventure double-crossed us. And I don’t want to haul around two prisoners. I say we figure this out right here and right now before going any further.”

  “What’s your name, Ranger?” Emerson eased forward, his hands on both the shotgun and the rope tethered to Hunter. “We’re a right friendly group, but let’s say we’ve been burned.” He pulled on the rope and slung Hunter his way. He smacked him in the backside with his boot. “This boy here tried to get the jump on the old man. You see what happened, don’t you?”

  The ranger gulped. “I wouldn’t mess with any of you. It looks like a rowdy crew. My name is Nate Campbell.”

  “Do you know what happened?” Tom asked.

  “I’d talk better if y’all didn’t have all those guns pointed at me.”

  Robin drew her cop voice. “I’m Agent Sherwood with the ATF. What the hell happened?”

  Campbell studied Robin for a few beats. His friendly eyes betrayed him. “I was watching the TV news a couple of days ago. They spoke about a worldwide phenomenon. Scientific stuff over my head, but something about sunspots and EMP-like impacts around the world. First in Egypt, where they lost all working machines and millions were killed. Then the power went out for me. Except for somebody shooting at me, I haven’t seen another person. Not one alive.”

  Tom relaxed his gun and removed his hat to wipe perspiration. His third hat, this one the straw variety with a cheesy logo from the bait and tackle shop. He recalled his first hat and the joy on Gus’s face when the kid swiped it. The joy now long-gone was replaced by a zombie. Dixie and Barb split duties in guiding him. The kid leaned against the store, the ever-present vacancy on his face. As Tom worried about the kid’s future, he saw the impact. Time stood still at the distant crack of the gunshot. Gus crumpled, blood spilling from his chest.

  The group scrambled inside the store with Tom dragging Gus. “My fault,” Campbell groaned. “I must’ve led him right to all of you.”

  “I should kill you,” Davidson said.

  “Later.” Tom handed the kid to Barb. “Return fire.” He smashed a window and steadied the rifle on the window sill. The figure scurried for the cover of a tree. “I winged him. He’s in the tree at two o’clock. The tallest one. Blast away.”

  The shotgun could not reach, but Emerson pumped a few rounds. Both Davidson and Robin fired pistols. Tom waited for movement and fired at the blur. The shooter bolted laying cover fire.

  Emerson pumped his shotgun, expelling a shell. “I reckon he’s behind cover now, Yank.”

  “I’m going after him.” Tom spun to the group. “Davidson, you and Bull stay. Robin, you and I are going after this shooter while Barb and Hibbert tend to the kid. He’s in critical condition.”

  “I agree,” Robin answered without tension. “Let’s haul butt and maybe we can surprise the bastard.”

  Tom twisted to Campbell. “Hold on, there, Hoss.”

  Campbell knelt to Gus, his park ranger jacket hovering over the wound. “I can be of some help. I had medical training before, uh, I quit my old job.”

  “If you make any false move, I’ll kill you where you stand,” Tom said. “You on board with him helping the kid, Barb?”

  Barb’s pretty, artic blue eyes widened and her lips settled in a grim line. “I’m not sure I trust him but Gus might be dying. He can’t do any more harm. This is a chance we should take.”

  Campbell pointed his chin to the door as he rolled his sleeves. “The trail leads to a park and further out a golf course, or the start of one. It’s under construction. When he hits the area, he’ll be out in the open.” The ranger swerved his head to Barb and Hibbert. “Go find alcohol and see about some sterilized gloves.”

  Robin guided Tom’s elbow. “The shooter is getting away.”

  Tom set his feet. “Davidson, Bull keep your eye on him.”

  Taking the lead, Tom charged. Robin, in her mid-twenties, displayed endurance keeping pace. He possessed enough stubborn doggedness to push onward even though he wore exhaustion and sleep deprivation like an overcoat.

  “I see him,” Robin said ducking behind a cypress tree.

  Curling around a boulder, Tom trained his eyes to the golf course. A bulldozer was parked near a mound of dirt and the shooter climbed on top of the yellow monster. “I’ll be shocked if it starts.”

  “If you have a shot, take it,” Robin said.

  “No, he’s staying low.” Seconds ticked by and Tom grew impatient. He rolled downhill to the next spot for cover, four large mounds of dirt. The whiff of plowed soil reminded him of early summers on his grandparent’s farm in Pennsylvania. The blue-sky bled through the green haze. A new sight.

  Dirt flew in his face from a gunshot. Scrambling to the middle pile to reduce the angle, Tom made it before a volley spewed the dirt a few yards from his foot. Robin belly-crawled from her lone tree to a grove of smaller trees twenty yards away. The shooter blistered a tree trunk as she arrived.

  Sensing Robin’s imminent demise, Tom steadied the rifle and blasted toward the bulldozer, knowing he didn’t have the angle. But it worked as the shooter turned attention to Tom. The shooter approached the infancy of a golf green with a bunker to the left and a water hazard on the right. He longed for those early mornings and lazy afternoons on the golf course with his daughter. He fired another round to keep the enemy occupied and let his mind drift to the capable young teacher. In this world gone mad, he hoped she found a way to survive. Campbell’s brief description of what happened fit, but Tom had nagging doubts. He closed his eyes and pictured the man’s face and what made it familiar. Something more than the resemblance to golfer Phil Mickelson stuck out with the park ranger. The man mentioned a previous career. Tom clicked through the possibilities of where he saw the ranger before.

  Inconsistencies in Campbell’s story bothered Tom as he hunkered behind the mounds of dirt. He fired, cognizant of wasting ammunition, but determined to keep the shooter off Robin. Campbell mentioned scientific stuff was over his head, but later jumped in to help the gunshot wound with Gus and mentioned medical training.

  The shooter scrambled from the bulldozer but stayed behind cover. “ATF,” Tom said. “Get away from there. He’s coming at you.”

  When the shooter glanced his way, Tom reared and aimed. A groan and blood spurting signaled he hit the target. The shooter rolled behind the half-track tires and returned fire. Robin streaked from the cover of a tree into the open and fired her Glock. It clanged off of the metal machine and the shooter tumbled.

  Sprinting the thirty yards from the embankments in the direction of the lake he found cover on the hill. Air whizzed into Tom’s space and he heard the shot milliseconds later. It missed. He dove to his side and scurried low until he found a path to the shooter. He trained the weapon. Robin scurried behind Tom to the dunes of dirt he vacated.

  “Don’t move a muscle, fellow. You’re in my sights,” Tom said.

  “Take the shot, Tom,” Robin said.

  Tom didn’t see her out in the open, but he saw the glint in the shooter’s eyes. Tom squeezed the trigger before the shooter could. For good measure, he fired twice more. But the first round did the trick. “I got him. I’m sure it was a headshot, but let’s approach carefully.”

  Trudging behind him with the ATF windbreaker tied around her waist, she slapped him on the shoulder. “Good shooting.” She holstered the Glock when the two of them surveyed the bloody damage. “You saved my butt back there.”

  “It was crazy running out in the open.” Tom kicked at the body to view the face. “It isn’t Andy. Is this your fugitive?”

  “I should probably confess something here.”

  “What?” Tom asked. The pit of his stomach sank.

  “There was never a fugitive. I did have a partner and, uh, this is a complicated story.”

  “Is he your partner?”

  “Not the one in my car, but he was with us. I had a nag
ging feeling this guy was shooting at us. Him or his partner. Meet Gilbert Whitehead.” She winced and touched her side. “This thing’s made some of us go crazy.”

  Tom rolled the man to his belly and examined his wallet. A driver’s license identified him as Gilbert Whitehead and the ATF badge confirmed the same. He seized the M-16 Gilbert carried. “I’m not sure how he missed us with this.”

  “There’s no scope. Gilbert was never accurate.”

  “He was an agent?”

  “The boss.” She rubbed near her mouth when she talked and averted her eyes.

  “What aren’t you telling me here?”

  “I can’t really speak of the mission. Suffice it to say, one of our own turning on us was not in the cards.”

  “How many of you ATF agents were out here?”

  “My partner, dead Gilbert here, and a few others from the, uh, agency. You and the group talked about hallucinations. I’ve had a few of them myself. Maybe it’s what happened to Gilbert.”

  Pushing aside the desire to grill her, Tom instead put the M-16 strap around his shoulder and zipped to the forest along the path to the store. At the halfway point, they encountered Dixie. Without a word, Tom handed her the older rifle and signaled toward the cabin. They traveled for a few minutes before she asked what happened. “Did you take care of the maniac shooting at us? I assume so since you have a nice new gun.”

  “We took him out,” Robin said.

  Thinking of everyone they encountered since the yacht accident, Tom marched for the store. “Don’t shoot anybody, Lefty. But stay ready. We can’t trust people we run into.”

  At the bottom of the hill near the store, Tom stopped. Robin bumped into him. “It’s the trust thing, right Tom?”

  “About sums it up. You falsified the story of the fugitive and I’m not sure you haven’t lied about everything else. Do you know the old man, the kid Hunter or this ranger? Tell me the truth.”

  “I don’t know any of them, though Nate Campbell’s story sounds fishy. I don’t trust him, frankly.”

  “Are you ATF? Or something else?”