Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  “I want that flag painted on each vehicle, do it by hand if you have to. You get to the first big GangStar nest you can find, and you demolish it. Pound it from afar if you have to. I know you’ve been separating the SDC into different units, and that’s a great idea. Make sure you get men from each unit into the action. Make veterans out of them. We’re going to need men who have seen combat soon enough.

  “Let a few GangStars escape from the first batch, they’ll pass the word about what happened and maybe others will give up. You will accept their surrender, and then give them the option of a one-way trip to Gray territory or jail in that prison on the west side of town. I won’t have them disappear from our lands just to resurface against our allies. If you come across children who can be saved, accept them and we’ll figure out a foster system on the farms. The same with any women who were kept against their will. I will leave that as a case-by-case decision for our field commanders. If anyone under your command is uncomfortable making that call, I will do that for them,” Phil concluded.

  “And any men who want to join us?” Olsen asked his friend.

  “No. I can’t see anyone who wanted to live a righteous life still hanging with these animals. There has to have been a hundred chances to escape. No, the men left with this GangStar group will have done things by now that leave them condemned in my eyes. I don’t suspect many will surrender, anyway.” Phil was stone-faced, matching his disgust for people who preyed on the weak.

  “So, Commander, your orders are to kill anything that flashes that symbol, understood?” the Founder of the SDC concluded, referring to the upper case G with a star in the middle that all GangStars displayed.

  “Understood, sir. I’ll have a battle plan completed by tomorrow morning. With your permission, I’ll take Alex with me. I assure you he’ll stay back from the front line action. But if he’s going to be an SDC officer someday, he could stand to see how a plan goes into place,” Fredericks said.

  “Eric, too, Commander,” Phil replied. Eric was the sheriff's eldest son, a phenomenal athlete who would have played college football in the Old World.

  Olsen smiled at Phil, “Thanks, Phil. I appreciate that. He’ll be thrilled at the chance.”

  Eric Olsen was already serving his SDC rotation on one of the frontier Fortress Farms near the furthest northern territory allied with the SDC. He was a bright young man, and gifted in leadership. Olsen and Phil often spoke about Eric and AJ, no, he said I have to start calling him Alex now, serving together. Assuming that they would be future leaders of the SDC together, this would be a great chance to work side by side.

  “Done. Sheriff Olsen, Founder Hamilton, if you’ll excuse me, I have some plans to make.”

  Fredericks exited the door briskly as usual.

  “Finding him was a miracle, you know?” Phil asked rhetorically.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Olsen replied. “We’ve got to set him up with someone. This country’s going to need more of him.”

  “Is that how we think now, Clark? Genetic replication for the good of the country?” Phil could barely contain his laughter at the absurdity.

  “Maybe. Think about it, Phil. Our kids aren’t like us already. Just a couple of years gone by. I don’t know if it’s going through a traumatic situation… I know each generation talks about how they can’t relate to their kids. But with us, I mean, they’re really not like us. They talk about fighting the Americans. They’re going to inherit castles and estates. Castles, Phil!” he stressed.

  He continued: “We’ve got armored vehicles patrolling the countryside, and we’re using an army to root out bad guys in a suburban neighborhood. I mean, do you ever stop to think of how absurd all this is?”

  “Every day, Clark. You know that. I was trying to make that point when you forced me to become dictator earlier, remember?” Phil shot back.

  “I know, I know. It just really gets to me sometimes. If the Catholics and Lutherans and the Baptists and the Methodists are all getting along…that has to prove we’re in the End Times, right?” Clark joked.

  Religious freedom was protected in the Okaw, but from here on, the green and silver frocked pastors of the Unified Church would serve as Chaplains of the SDC. There just weren’t enough trained pastors to go around, and it was agreed that trying to support more than one Church per community would be against the goal of serving God’s people.

  A very basic set of Belief Pillars that all could agree on was drafted by Father Steve and Pastor Hart. Everyone was allowed to believe whatever they wanted in their hearts, but in the Unified Church the pastors agreed to keep to the Pillars. The Belief Pillars also helped remote frontier Land Lords who were unaccustomed to leading church services for their Tenants and families.

  Phil’s train of thought was interrupted when one of Clark’s deputies knocked and entered.

  “Sirs, there is someone here to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Okay, Deputy. Send him in.”

  Phil and Olsen rose to greet the mayor of Raymond, a small town over forty miles away from where they currently sat. The town was far outside the county’s patrol range, with several miles of unclaimed and dangerous territory between the two.

  Phil met the man once at a pre-Reset gathering put on by Old Main College. Shelby County Cooperative had been part of a discussion on how to improve rural economies. Phil remembered him vaguely, and they skipped the formalities.

  “We need to join your group immediately,” the man said in a huff.

  “Mr. Mayor, I’m sorry, but I’m just not sure how we can help. We're having a pretty hard time taking care of our own at the moment.”

  “But we need someone to defend our town, and we don’t have the equipment or the manpower.”

  The Mayor was a short man, with glasses and oddly still wearing a tie. This far past the Reset, most adults were dressed in patched work clothes, and anything resembling dress clothes would be reserved for church or very special occasions. Phil didn’t hold the man’s attire against him; he just thought it was strange. But if memory served, the mayor was a competent man who worked very hard to help the people of his town.

  Besides, odd folks are in no short supply these days, Phil reminded himself.

  “Mr. Mayor, you understand that we don’t have a standing army, right? We have a citizen militia, who can be called up on short notice. Shelby County only has fifteen citizens who work on defense issues full-time. And frankly, I just can’t spare any of them,” Phil explained. No sense letting an outsider know about Commander Fredericks and the new units created from National Guardsmen. If surrounding communities heard of the progress being made here, he feared that the county deputies would become like 911 for them. How could a fellow American turn down a distress call?

  “We’re surrounded,” he muttered.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor. We just can’t help you right now,” Phil told the man. Maybe, when we’ve got Decatur secured, I can send someone over to help, Phil hoped to himself.

  Raymond's Mayor looked at the two men dejectedly. As quickly as he appeared, he faded back through the door.

  “We just can’t do it right now, Phil,” Olsen said to his friend. “We’re not superheroes. We can’t be everywhere at once. Maybe someday.”

  “I know, Clark. I just hope for some of these folks there is a someday.”

  Jacksonville

  Drab green transport trucks pulled up in front of what had once been the Jacksonville Correctional Center. Heavily armed men in mottled gray uniforms hopped out of the back of each vehicle and took up positions all around the line of trucks.

  Darwin King leaned on metal crutch, shifting his weight to take pressure off his right arm. He moved the crutch to his left, then hobbled a few feet forward, nearer the small group assembled on the concrete patio near the prison’s main entrance.

  A moment passed, then each truck’s passenger door opened simultaneously. Men in identical uniforms climbed out of the passenger side of the trucks and wa
lked towards the patio.

  “You gonna get in there and introduce yourself?” Heath Bohrmann asked quietly.

  Darwin grinned and shook his head. “Looks for all the world like a politician’s fundraiser from back in the day,” he chuckled.

  Darwin said nothing more as Warden Issa Marduk and Captain Peter Lewis greeted the new arrivals. Luck had seen Kara Bradshaw’s ex-husband connected with the soldiers they’d stumbled into after the lodge was overrun by prisoners. If not for the sake of Kara, Lewis had at least given them shelter for little Max. To his credit, he’d been nothing but cordial to the whole group while Darwin mended. Darwin was savvy enough to know there’d be a price to pay later.

  One of the visiting dignitaries seemed to get the most attention from Marduk and Lewis. He had thick black rimmed glasses he pushed up with his finger every so often, nodding thoughtfully at whatever Marduk was saying to him. Before King realized it, the man was looking right at him, then made his way past the warden. She was still talking, but the man was no longer listening.

  “Darwin King,” glasses man said confidently.

  “Right, mate. Apologies, you appear to have me at the disadvantage.”

  “I wrote a paper on you in business school. When they told me you were here at one of my prisons, I could scarcely believe it. You’re a long way from home,” he said.

  “Too right. How’s about I get a name so I can address you proper,” King said, as cheery as his pain would allow.

  Bright white teeth glowed in a smile from the younger man, holding onto King’s hand tightly. The grip lasted longer than customary. King knew he was being evaluated. He refused to look away despite the discomfort.

  “Masen,” the man replied. “Malik Masen.” He finally pulled his hand back and motioned to the taller man one step behind him. “This is the gentleman oversees our facilities. Robert Masen.”

  With a toothy grin and a nod the tall man said, “You can call me Robbie.”

  “Alright, Robbie. And you can call me Darwin. Fine job you’ve done getting this place of yours in order.”

  Robbie had the graciousness to point over to Marduk and Lewis. “These two have been a big help. Since we had to make a, um, management change here after the power went out, it was good to have a couple of experienced leaders ready to take charge.”

  King started to ask a question, then stopped. He’d heard the stories about what the previous warden of the prison here. He’d also heard how Malik came to be the head of a quasi-army based out of Springfield just 40 miles to the east. Whatever ill feelings he had toward Marduk and Lewis – or more specifically how they left the people of Mt. Sterling to fend for themselves – he decided to keep to himself for now. They’d spent nearly irreplaceable medicines to help him recover. The least he could do was keep his mouth shut, at least for now.

  Malik Masen clearly had a knack for reading people’s expressions. Perhaps King was still too weak to hide his true thoughts. “Listen, Darwin, I’d sure like to run a couple of ideas past you when you have a moment.”

  “Reckon I got all the time in the world, mate.”

  “Right, of course. I need to take care of a little business here, but what say we meet in about an hour or so.”

  Without waiting for a reply, both Masens and their entourage made for the main entrance, followed closely by Warden Marduk and her group.

  Bohrmann and King were left standing alone on the concrete, watching and wondering.

  “What do you reckon that was all about?” Bohrmann asked his boss and friend.

  “Ain’t nothin’ good, I’d wager,” King replied. He thought about it for a moment, then added, “On the other hand, could be just the sorta break we’ve been waitin’ on.”

  The Okaw

  Phil stood with Sheriff Olsen and Captain Fredericks staring at a local map taped up on the wall of the Courthouse conference room. Colored pins were pushed into different locations, each one reflecting a potential spot to spring an ambush on the Decatur National Guard.

  “How can we know this major will be there with the rest when they come after us?” Sheriff Olsen asked. Olsen usually insisted on calling the Guard unit a gang, in some way absolving his mind from the thought of potentially killing men he still considered to be American soldiers.

  “I’ve made contact with some soldiers still on base,” Captain Fredericks replied. “We’re working to provide intel to Major Stillman. Let him know I’ll be there along with the rest of my group. This guy is a Grade-A nutcase. After the spanking you gave him at the office park, and how I embarrassed him by deserting, he’s going to come at me with everything he has. Once we take him out, the real soldiers and civilians still left on the base will rise up against the guards when we arrive at the gate.”

  “That’s an awful lot of moving parts,” Phil said, pulling on his graying beard - no one in the Okaw shaved anymore.

  “We have to do this soon, gentlemen. You know that this coward already sent a message to New America, telling him about my group escaping and the SDC helping. If Colonel Walsh really has gone off the deep end, he’ll relish the opportunity to try out his new Legions on all of us. Whether we want it to happen or not, he’s coming. Even if we win, we can’t afford for a single able-bodied man to get hurt. There’s already too much daily work to go around. Facing trained fighters could kill or maim dozens of our guys. We have to get Decatur under our control now if we want to protect our farms,” Fredericks told them.

  Phil considered the professional soldier for a moment. In just a short time, Fredericks had adopted this collection of farms and little towns as his home. Phil and Sheriff Olsen both found themselves confiding in Fredericks their concerns and plans for the Okaw Valley SDC. The arrival of him and the nine veteran soldiers under his command – the Ten Vets, as they were known around the county – could have easily caused an unexpected conflict to arise. But no one in Shelby County blamed these refugees for the fight coming their way. Eventually trouble would have come their way. Okaw was fortunate to now include experienced soldiers when considering their defense, soldiers who had lived through tribal warfare in the Sandbox. From the stories of their service, those were lands ruled by strongmen and anarchy with little hope for anything but survival, which honestly didn't sound that different from their current surroundings.

  Phil spoke: “Captain, how is this Colonel Walsh supplying all these fighting men? We’re barely keeping everyone fed, and we’ve been growing our own food around here for generations. Even with every man, woman and child working to exhaustion, it’s going to be tight for the first couple of years. Walsh and Stillman are able to field a dedicated fighting force, and neither of them seems too worried about getting some kind of crop in the ground. I understand they’re looting places they take over, but that seems like a diminishing prospect every week that goes by.”

  “Well, Walsh is trying to get his own food production going. Don’t lump Stillman in with the Colonel,” Fredericks replied, subconsciously defending the man he served under for so long. “New America’s main asset is a map of the old underground missile silos all over the country. Department of Homeland Security hid thousands of caches of food and supplies, sometimes right under your feet.”

  Stunned silence hung in the air. Olsen and Phil stared at Fredericks, wondering if he was pulling their leg.

  “What?” Fredericks asked with surprise. “Did you guys not know? Clark, you were a county sheriff, didn’t you get the Homeland Security bulletins every month?”

  “Nothing like that! I for sure would have remembered missile silos in our county!” Olsen exclaimed.

  “Most were decommissioned over the years, but the facilities were kept in good repair. The news always showed the public the big missile bases out in the western plains. Did you think they’d really show everyone where our nuclear assets actually were? Money from those hundred-dollar hammers the media always squawked about paid for secret projects like hidden weapons. Most Senators didn’t even know about them. Whe
n we cut back on the land-based nuclear arsenal, the silos were kept as shelters for VIPs in some kind of collapse or disaster scenario,” Fredericks explained.

  “So are there people down in those shelters right now? This certainly seems to qualify as a disaster.”

  “I doubt it,” Fredericks told them. “Everything happened so fast, I think you would have had to receive advance information and get down the shafts before the computers went to sleep. Those silos had massive doors to protect them. I don’t know if there was a manual override, probably a hydraulic system run by electric motors.

  “I guess if the computer systems in the silos were isolated from the rest of the Grapevine Network, maybe they could have kept the life support functioning. Then they just wait for the collapse to burn itself out. Sounds farfetched, but maybe all this wasn’t an accident,” Fredericks concluded nonchalantly to a still-stunned Phil and Olsen.

  Delbert, one of the leaders of the Wizards Engineering Corps, broke their silence as he entered the conference room. “Glad I could find the brain trust here,” the crusty old retired engineer said with a smirk. “Makes me feel much better to know such dedicated geniuses are on the case.” Delbert’s good-natured jabs were ratcheting up with the pressure they all felt.

  “We’d all feel a lot better if you could get us some more Turtles built, Delbert. My men guarding your shop tell me you’ve been busy trying to recreate TV instead. Something about a breakthrough in using the old coaxial cable strung throughout the county. I imagine you’re trying to get your soap operas back on. We all know how you older folk like your stories,” Sheriff Olsen replied with a grunt.

  “The coaxial cable is being used for a countywide phone system, though I like the idea of catching up on my soaps,” Delbert replied, mocking contemplation. “Naw, I got something better than that for you, Sheriff.”

  Delbert unrolled the plans he held in his hands. “Behold the Mark 2 fighting vehicle. We’ve been trying to come up with a catchy name like ‘Snapping Turtle,’ but we figured we’d leave that to the Founding Farmer here. He likes to put labels on things,” Delbert nodded to Phil.