THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5

by Steven Konkoly

  “It worked,” said Ed.

  “You can slow down. They’re still standing around,” said Charlie.

  “That was different,” said Alex.

  “Very different,” Charlie agreed. “Do you think they scope everyone that approaches?”

  “I didn’t see any binoculars. It might be all they have to make a long-range identification.”

  “Helluva greeting,” said Charlie.

  “Who in their right mind is going to drive up to the roadblock with a gun trained on them?” asked Ed.

  “Maybe that’s the point. They don’t want anybody approaching.”

  Ed glanced at Alex. “Where do we turn for Route 9?”

  “Up here a little bit. You’re looking for Blackberry Hill Road. I might break out the GPS if we get too deep into the back roads.”

  “You want it now?” Charlie asked.

  “Not yet. If Route 9 is a bust, we’ll put it to work.”

  “I say we skip Route 9. We don’t need a trigger-happy local putting a bullet through the engine block or one of our heads,” Ed said nervously. “As much as I want to move this trip along, I think you’re right about finding a less crowded crossing further west.”

  “Then crack out the GPS, Charlie,” Alex said. “We won’t bother trying to get through Berwick. There’s a crossing at East Rochester and—”

  “I wouldn’t bother with that one,” Charlie cut in. “Rochester is a few miles across the border along Route 11. It might be busier than the Route 4 crossing in South Berwick.”

  “We don’t know how busy Route 4 was,” Ed pointed out.

  “If they’re guarding the ass end of town, trust me, it’s crowded. These towns are under a lot of pressure to avoid a replay of the Jakarta Pandemic,” Charlie said. “We need to find a road that’s not connected to a major city in New Hampshire or a town in Maine.”

  Alex studied the map for a minute, while Ed searched for Blackberry Hill Road. He traced the border with his finger, shaking his head every time it stopped. He needed something away from Rochester, but options thinned past Milton, New Hampshire. Route 125 intersected with Milton, making it a less than optimal choice.

  Long lines at the border crossing in Rochester would push refugees north along the border on Route 125. Milton was one of the last crossing points before diverting several miles north. They were guaranteed to run into a strong local presence on the Maine side of the border near Milton. Tactically, Alex would fortify this point, so they would avoid it. Crisscrossing roads, he settled on the last small-town crossing before Route 109. He paged through the map book for a more detailed look at the town, smiling at what he found on the map.

  “Milton Mills, New Hampshire,” he said.

  “Never heard of it,” said Charlie.

  “Good,” Alex replied. “I think we’re looking at about twenty-five miles—probably fifty minutes on back roads—but the town has two crossings, and it’s just far enough north to give us some less crowded options for reaching Route 125.”

  “That far?” said Ed.

  “It’s the last crossing on the map before Route 109. We all know 109 will be guarded. It’s a direct route to Sanford.”

  “At this rate, we’ll be lucky to get to Medford before dark,” said Ed.

  “If it rains as hard as I think it will, we might not get there at all,” said Charlie.

  Alex shook his head. “We’re too far inland for that to be a problem. Plus, a heavy rain will keep people inside. Fewer idiots checking out our ride.”

  “I’m worried about the area around Haverhill,” said Charlie, “it’s right on the Merrimack about ten or so miles to the ocean.”

  “We just need to get over the border, and we’ll have smooth sailing through most of New Hampshire,” said Alex, turning to meet Charlie’s doubtful eyes. “Seriously. We get to 125 and we’re home free until we ditch the Jeep,” he said, purposely avoiding eye contact.

  Alex stared past Ed at the bank of dark clouds swallowing up the remaining patches of blue sky. He doubted they would reach the crossing before the rain, which suited him fine. The rain would mask their approach. One way or the other, this Jeep would negotiate the border at Milton Mills. The choice between a hard or soft negotiation rested with the people guarding the bridges.

  Chapter 19

  EVENT +29:52 Hours

  Sanford, Maine

  Harrison Campbell approached the red-sided barn along a worn dirt path, nodding to his second in command, who stood in the barn’s open bay door. He glanced momentarily at the assembly of vehicles parked on the worn grass in front of the barn, noting the mix. A few economy sedans and an old Subaru Forrester. They’d need full-size SUVs and pickup trucks to handle regular supply delivery and general hauling. He supposed they should be thankful. None of them had put much faith in the latest rendition of the government’s Critical National Infrastructure report. He’d gladly take a few beat-up sedans over nothing.

  When he reached the barn door, his deputy commander rendered a salute, which Campbell returned. Glen Cuskelly was dressed in woodland camouflage fatigues, with the York County Readiness Brigade patch displayed prominently on his right shoulder. A second patch was Velcroed to his left breast pocket, identifying him as the brigade’s deputy commander. Tan combat boots and a black baseball cap imprinted with the brigade’s logo completed the uniform, which Harrison insisted all of the county-level chapter leaders wore in the field or in public.

  He had led the York County Readiness Brigade, formerly known as the York County Militia, through a public perception transformation over the past several years. Long gone were the days of mismatched uniforms, public displays of military-style weaponry and weekend tactical assault training. The word militia had become synonymous with gun-toting, doomsday-fearing, antigovernment revolutionaries, which couldn’t be further from the true purpose of his group.

  Harrison had worked tirelessly, often fruitlessly, with the media to change this perception, which had suffered a major setback during the 2013 pandemic. At the height of the Boston exodus, the Kittery chapter decided to blockade the two major bridges over the Pisqataqua River, in an attempt to stem the tide of violence and looting that had engulfed York County. State police, backed by heavily armed elements of the Maine National Guard, had to forcibly remove the group after militia members fired into a sedan trying to plow through the roadblock, tragically killing a young family.

  The unfortunate incident went mostly unnoticed until it was revived in early 2015 by a national magazine, in a two-part exposé on the rising number of armed antigovernment groups “training for revolution.” Despite the fact that membership was still on the rise, for the first time in over a decade, the York County Militia was politely declined a place in several important Memorial and Independence Day parades.

  The message was less than subtle. The York County Militia was no longer welcome by town hall. Harrison Campbell decided to steer the public’s focus away from the guns and back to the organization’s core values: self-reliance, preparedness and community service. Efforts to regain community trust moved slowly, but 2019 marked the first year that the former York County Militia had marched in parades through Biddeford, York, Kennebunk and Sanford.

  “Brigade leadership is formed, sir,” said Cuskelly.

  “Thank you, Glen. What are we looking at?”

  “Brian showed up a few minutes ago, which puts us at three out of the seven commanders,” Cuskelly replied.

  “Still no word from the York or Kittery chapters?”

  “Nothing yet. Reports from the area aren’t encouraging. It looks like a total wipeout east of the turnpike.”

  “And Limerick?” asked Campbell.

  “Randy’s radio must be down. We haven’t heard from him since about eight last night. He knows about the meeting,” said Cuskelly, shrugging his shoulders.

  “It’s not like Randy to blow off his duties. He’ll show up. Let’s get this moving along, so everyone can get back out to their peo
ple,” said Campbell, stepping inside the York County Readiness Brigade’s headquarters.

  The barn’s recently renovated interior contained a single, wide-open, post-and-beam interior from front to back, featuring vaulted arches and struts running the entire length of the ceiling. An unfinished oak-board floor held up several rows of rough-cut timber benches, giving the space the distinct feel of a rural Grange hall. A thick, hand-hewn, pine table sat lengthwise in front of the benches at the far side of the barn, surrounded by the brigade leadership team, all of whom leaned over a map, talking excitedly. Several additional maps adorned the far right corner walls, within easy reach of the ham radio station.

  The brigade banner towered over them, draped across the floor-to-ceiling flagstone fireplace anchoring the far wall. The royal blue flag displayed their motto, “Semper Tuens” (always protecting), in gold letters above a simple picture of a colonial minuteman. “YCRB” was printed under the minuteman, representing the only change to the banner in thirty-three years. The American flag and Maine state flags flanked the fireplace, attached to thick wooden poles in black iron stands. The poles were canted away from the fireplace at forty-five degree angles to allow the unfurled display of each flag. From the back of the barn, it was an awe-inspiring sight that filled him with pride.

  The Campbell family barn and the two hundred surrounding acres had served as the York County Militia’s headquarters and meeting place since its inception, hosting everything from small leadership meetings to the town-hall-style public relations events that had become more common recently. The personally funded renovation effort had transformed the damp, dingy barn into a warm, inviting space for these events. They could hardly transform public perception in the propane-lantern-lit, creaky old barn that had served them for years.

  The men around the table stood at loose attention when he walked down the aisle between benches.

  “At ease, everyone. Why don’t we all take seats for now? We’ll get to the maps a little later,” he said, pulling a chair out for himself in the middle.

  “Thank you for making the trip under less than optimal circumstances. I know you have your own families and people to look after, so I won’t keep you long. Obviously, we’re missing some folks,” he said, and the group murmured. “I want you to stay focused on your own areas of responsibility for now. Once we’ve sorted out how to make the best impact within each of your chapters, we’ll explore ways to expand east and help. Let’s conduct a quick SITREP from each chapter and see where we stand for now. Gerry?” he said, nodding to the Biddeford/Saco chapter commander.

  “Coastal areas were hit hard, which is no surprise,” said Gerry Beaudoin. “Old Orchard Beach is a total loss. Biddeford and Saco downtown areas were relatively untouched, aside from a massive surge of water down the Saco River. Messed up the riverfront areas something fierce. We have trees down and windows shattered all over, but the heavily populated areas were spared the tsunami effects. Downtown Biddeford is nearly four miles from the coastline.”

  “That’s good news, Gerry. I know you live out past the 95, so I assume your outreach supplies are still intact?” said Campbell.

  “Yep. I have the stuff split between my deputy commander and a few other trusted members. Tents, tarps, fuel, dried stores—all maintained according to brigade readiness standards.”

  “Vehicles?”

  “I have three working vehicles, including the one next to the barn. Another car and a pickup. We’ll get out into the community to try to enlist volunteers with vehicles, but it’s still too early. Everyone’s way too preoccupied with their own situation at the moment.”

  “It’s not helping that the cops were stealing cars from citizens. Trust is running a little thin out there,” said Dave Littner.

  “There’s nothing we can do about that. A contact of mine in the state police said that some of the major municipalities requisitioned cars to replace their own disabled vehicles. It doesn’t sound good, and I’d be rightly pissed if they took one of ours, but we’re dealing with a statewide emergency. We have to cut them some slack, but keep an eye on the situation,” said Campbell.

  “I can tell you right now what’ll happen if they try to take one of our cars,” said Littner.

  “Dave, the last thing we need is a police confrontation of any kind,” said Campbell.

  “I know. I know. But something isn’t right with all of this. The police chief in South Berwick is a good friend of mine, and he told me that the state police hand delivered a Homeland Security bulletin mandating that they disarm citizens carrying firearms. I saw the fucking thing. Homeland has declared a national state of emergency, citing the 2015 Defense Authorization Bill’s modification of the Insurrection Act. People are worried, Harry. They’re worried that this whole EMP thing is a false flag operation.”

  Everyone broke out into an argument at once.

  “Easy now! We need to stay focused!” said Campbell.

  “All I’m saying is that some of what we’re hearing over the emergency broadcasts makes sense, but what we’re seeing from the government doesn’t,” said Littner. “There’s no reason to start disarming the populace if an asteroid hit, unless…”

  “Unless what?” Campbell prompted.

  “I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t like it. There’s not a lot of information flowing, and that makes people nervous. Look at the borders. They’re jammed with folks headed out of the cities. I’m already getting requests from the local police to help out with border crossings.”

  “Which you’ve politely declined,” said Campbell.

  “Absolutely, though we might have to reconsider this position.”

  “The brigade isn’t a police force. We’ve promised the people of York County that we’d never serve in that capacity. If the towns need help with municipal duties, we’ll commit one hundred percent of our resources, but I won’t have members of the brigade manning checkpoints with weapons. Are we all good to go with that?” Campbell looked around at the members.

  Everyone voiced agreement, except for Littner.

  “What is it, Dave?” said Campbell.

  “I’m totally with you, but I think we have a problem.”

  “Have some of your people already done this?”

  “No. The chapter is solid,” Littner said with a hurt look. “You know that.”

  “I’m sorry, Dave. I know you’ve taken pains to weed out the chaff over there.”

  “That’s just the problem. I know for a fact that Eli Russell has approached the Berwick and Eliot police to offer his group’s assistance,” said Littner.

  “I presume they turned him down?”

  “They turned him down for now, but the police are stretched thin. They’ve started to deputize people they can trust to augment the reserve officers. Just manning the border crossings twenty-four hours a day is taking up most of their manpower, and that’s only dealing with vehicle traffic. Once the greater Boston area starts to deteriorate and people start migrating on foot, they’ll be hard-pressed to turn down Eli’s offer.”

  “That could spell trouble for all of us,” said Cuskelly.

  “I’m simply suggesting that it might be in our best interest to beat Eli to the punch here,” Littner said. “Get our own people involved in these checkpoints, maybe as unarmed observers or inspectors. That way we’ll be in a stronger position to argue against the use of his militia.”

  Harrison Campbell contemplated the suggestion, frowning at the thought of getting involved in formal police operations. He wouldn’t hesitate to employ the brigade to protect civilians from specific threats, but patrolling the streets as a sanctioned arm of government didn’t square with the public perception they had worked tirelessly to build over the past several years. Littner’s idea of using the brigade as an observer force had potential. As unarmed, neutral observers, they could assist with nonenforcement tasks and sell their presence to the public as a quasi-watchdog role.

  “Assuming an observer-only role, how
many members do you think it will take to get the job done?” he asked after a moment of contemplation.

  Littner grabbed one of the pencils sitting on the map and leaned over the table to examine the border area.

  “I would guess three per crossing. They can rotate shifts, with one working the checkpoint, and the other two resting up. We’ll pick people that live close by and send them with a tent and some supplies. This could also give us a little community outreach presence. If people come by the tent, we’ll explain that the brigade is involved as a neutral observer, to ensure the protection of people’s civil liberties. Kind of like UN observers.”

  “Let’s steer clear of the United Nations comparison. That’ll clear people out faster than one of Glen’s chili bombs,” said Campbell, eliciting a table full of laughter and fist pounding.

  “I don’t think anything could empty a room quicker,” said Beaudoin.

  “Sorry about that, Glen. I couldn’t think of a better way to drive home the point. No UN comparisons, please. With two to three per checkpoint, what are we looking at?” Campbell asked, hovering over the map.

  Littner traced the border, stopping at each road over the Salmon Falls River.

  “Between the Eliot, South Berwick and Berwick PDs, I know they’re covering six crossings from the Turnpike to Route 11. The state police have Route 11 coming out of Rochester and Route 109. I don’t know what’s happening up in Milton or Milton Mills.”

  “All right, here’s what I want you to do, Dave. Before we commit to this endeavor, I want you to drive the border roads and check out each crossing. Stop and talk to each checkpoint to gauge their interest in having a few of our people help with nonenforcement tasks. Once I get in touch with Randy, I’ll send him west to the crossings north of 109 to get a handle on things. Just touch base with the checkpoints and feel them out. Has anyone run into Eli’s brother down south?”

  “Jimmy’s been quiet from what I can tell. Then again, it’s barely been twenty-four hours,” said Littner.