The McClane Apocalypse Book Ten

by Kate Morris

  “Sure,” Cory says. “I’m sure they were two peas. There’s a reason Parker thought to find his old buddy the senator in all of this.”

  “Too bad he killed himself in the process of trying to get away from us.”

  “Yeah, we should ask people fleeing from us in fear not to kill themselves in their clumsy haste before we can do it for them.”

  John laughs.

  Cory says, “Think we’re going to find something tonight?”

  “I think we’re going to find something,” John says and glances over with an arched eyebrow. “I just don’t know what it’s gonna be.”

  Cory ponders this for a while in silence and assumes that John is doing the same. There has to be a reason Parker had these locations circled on those maps. If it wasn’t to show their locations, then it had to be marking something significant enough to bother drawing out the maps in the first place.

  “We’ll need to watch for booby-traps and trip wires,” John comments. “And be careful not to be seen.”

  “Roger that,” Cory says with a firm nod. He knows John is just going over this out loud to prep them for the night. Neither of them needs to review any of this. It just helps to reiterate plans aloud because it creates a rhythm of repetition that makes the movements they’ll be doing a thing of habit, which will help to erase room for errors and mistakes.

  Cory sighs, “I always got a bad vibe from that dick.”

  John chuffs, “That’s just ‘cuz he was always gawking at your girl.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. I should’ve killed him just for that alone.”

  John guffaws as he drives them off the road around an abandoned delivery truck. They ride in silence for a while and then chat about Parker’s locations on the maps, which they both agree are likely militant camps.

  After midnight, Cory orders John to slow down, “We’re close. We need to find a place to stash the truck so we can do some surveillance.”

  “Too bad we don’t have some rain or even snow,” John laments.

  “Yeah,” Cory agrees. They’ll have to be more careful without the cover of rain or snow to help mask their movement or noise.

  John veers into a neighborhood and finds an open garage door attached to a very expensive home, or what was formerly a very expensive home before the neighborhood became a ghost town. Once they have the truck parked, Cory jumps out and closes the garage door to hide it. John spreads out the map on the hood of the truck.

  We should be less than a mile from it,” John says. “Derek said he compared it with Doc’s maps and there isn’t much around here. Lots of woods. The dead senator lived here in Brentwood,” he says, pointing, to which Cory nods. “We’re just north.”

  “Right, the state park,” Cory agrees. “Makes sense. He’d need a good place to hide a big group like that.”

  “At least he marked their location,” his friend says. “Lake is here. Looks pretty large.”

  “Yeah,” Cory concurs. “They’re on the east side.”

  “Right, ready?”

  Cory smirks, “Always.”

  They are probably a mile, maybe two at the most from the red circle on the map. It won’t take them long to get there if there really is something to see.

  John pockets the keys while Cory grabs some of their gear from the back seat. Within minutes, they are jogging through the neighborhood and out into the darkness beyond.

  “This shit feels familiar,” Cory comments.

  “It always does, my friend,” John agrees.

  Before long, they come to a path. It is well worn and recently used by the fresh footprints and tire tracks crushed into the ground. Cory suggests they should head north of the location and flank. John gives him a nod. With their night-vision gear on, they can see a lot further in the dark. The moon is also nearly full which helps a great deal as they climb a steep hill. When they reach the top, John indicates they should stop. Cory squats beside his friend, who has taken cover behind tall, thick pine trees.

  “This looks good,” John says to him and points. “Check your coms.”

  “Got me?” Cory says, pressing his throat mic.

  “Loud and louder,” John returns jokingly.

  Sure enough, below them is a camp of some sort. Mostly tents are being used for housing, but there are also quite a few RV’s, trucks with caps, and even a tour bus. It is by no means the Gaylord Hotel or the Cheekwood mansion, but it would seem that life is going on about its usual business below them.

  “I’m gonna flank,” John says. “Be back in two hours.”

  “Yes, sir,” he answers with a nod.

  John takes off, silent like a nocturnal predator. There is no one better at this than John. His friend could’ve been like him, too. Just like when Cory left the farm for nearly a year, John could have done the same and been fine. He’s the most lethal and deadly thing in these woods tonight.

  Cory moves a dozen yards further up the hill and squats low behind a large boulder. The camp below him is mostly dark, as well as probably fifty yards out from the base of the hill. There are the remnants of campfires near some of the tents and RV’s, but mostly it’s quiet. He can’t see Parker living here like this. He wouldn’t rough it one night in this state park. Cory just wonders if he really is looking at an army of Parker’s making or if this is just one more of the many communities they’ve found out there trying to survive. Maybe he was going to have the highwaymen attack this group, steal and pillage their small village, and then recruit the survivors who would cooperate.

  He pulls his thermos full of tea from his pack and then discards the bag on the ground near his feet. If this is going to be a long night, which he can only assume it will be, then he’s going to need some energy, even if it means a thermos full of hot tea.

  He watches for over an hour from a one-kneed stance. Then Cory climbs onto the top of a low boulder and takes a seat with his rifle resting against his back. He settles in and raises his night-vision binoculars and continues to observe for another hour or so. There are probably forty or more tents, some of which he can’t see very well because they are spread throughout the open, grassy areas near the lake and the woods just beyond. A few lanterns here and there light a pathway between sectors. It seems as if the RV’s and trucks run along the outside perimeter of the large camp, acting almost like a barrier between themselves and potential attacks.

  The occasional owl hoots, and one time something rustles in the bushes probably twenty yards away, likely a wild animal. Other than that, it’s completely silent. He is far enough away that he won’t be spotted unless someone else down there is using night-vision binoculars, too. He’s also got the upper hand on high ground and buried in a forest full of trees.

  “This place is definitely something,” John says into Cory’s ear. “It’s not a state park campground anymore, but we’ve sure got a lot of people down there.”

  “Agreed, over,” Cory says quietly.

  “I’ve watched the same guards on this side for about an hour moving through a small perimeter search just inside the woods west of the main camp, over,” John relays.

  “I’ve got squat, over,” he returns.

  No sooner does he send that message, does Cory watch as three men with rifles exit a small shed near an RV. It almost seems as if the shed was probably there before the fall. The metal roof looks rusty, the paint on the siding is faded and chipped. They gather around a campfire, and one pokes at it with what looks like a metal rod. Without panicking, Cory gets down from his perch and takes a knee behind the rock in a better-concealed position.

  “I’ve got movement near the shack,” Cory says to John.

  “I’m heading your way,” John says, breathing more heavily into his throat mic. “We’ve got a patrol coming our way. Looks like they’re going to walk this ridge, over.”

  “I’ll move to the north up higher, over,” Cory relays and packs his thermos and grabs his bag again.

  “Meet ya’ there,” John states.

&n
bsp; Cory jogs carefully so as not to break branches and leave an easy trace of his presence. The incline is steep, but he has been running three to five miles a day to stay in shape since this all started in addition to the weight training and military-style workouts. He finds a good spot to hunker down and wait for John, who joins him twenty minutes later.

  “There’s two of ‘em coming up behind me,” his friend says.

  “No worries?”

  John shakes his head in the dark. “No. They didn’t see me.”

  It takes the men a lot longer to get to Cory’s former post than it would have taken them. These are not men in the same physical shape as he and John. They also move with less care through the woods, make more noise, and clearly aren’t worried about leaving a path that could be traced. The men take a rest break about ten yards away from them. One of them is even smoking, but Cory’s pretty sure it’s not a cigarette. He drags too long and holds it for even longer. They finally move on but not without first complaining about having to run these patrol routes.

  “How are we going to get proof that Parker’s in charge here?”

  “Not sure,” John answers. “We need to get down there with them and take a look around.”

  “Or snag someone and question them,” Cory suggests.

  John counters, “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. If we let the person go, then we’ll have a problem on our hands. They’d tell the others here. And I don’t want to kill an innocent person. Plus, if we let the person go and they tell, he’ll know we’re onto him for sure. We’ve gotta figure it out without anyone being questioned.”

  “I’ll go,” Cory states with resolve. “You stay up here, and I’ll go down closer and see what there is to see.”

  “Look for anything that would tie Parker to this,” John says.

  Cory scowls, “Like what?”

  They pause a moment, both considering. “See if any of the tents down there look like they came from Fort Knox or look government issued.”

  “Got it,” Cory says.

  “Also, if you spot anyone awake, see if you recognize them from Parker’s inner circle, the men he trusts. He could have them walking the beat around the camp. Be careful of that. I’ll spot you from up here. Once you make a run, I’ll go next.”

  “I’ll check it out,” Cory tells him.

  “Just intel,” John warns and then smirks.

  Cory smiles in the dark, “Right. Intel.”

  They bump fists, and Cory moves out again, going in the opposite direction from the one the men just took and passed below them. Then he works his way closer and closer to the camp until he is within mere feet from some of the tents as he winds his way between and around them. When he finds that nobody in this area is awake, Cory makes his way toward the RV camp and the shack.

  “You’ve got someone comin’ up on your six,” John says into Cory’s earpiece.

  “Roger,” he whispers and dodges away from the path and hides behind a tall, thick walnut tree.

  Sure enough, a person passes by, this time a woman. Instead of going straight, she comes within inches of Cory’s barely concealed boot and squats to urinate. When she is done, she stands again and goes back to her tent nearby. Cory exhales the breath he’d been holding. He waits an extra minute before starting out again.

  Circling the space that actually seems designated to tents, Cory moves stealthily through the woods, avoiding leaving a trail or disturbing the ground or underbrush. He comes to the area where the RV’s are parked and pauses before proceeding.

  There is a group of people huddled around a campfire with a spit above it roasting some sort of meat. Who the hell cooks meat after midnight? Perhaps this is the only way they have to cook anything and need to start it at night. Other than the few men standing there, Cory doesn’t see anyone else, so he keeps going.

  Behind the shed is a longer building that he wasn’t able to see from the ridge. It doesn’t seem like it houses people because there is a lock on the outside.

  “Found another building,” he whispers into his throat mic, observing the structure that has a low pitch roof and is around fifty feet long. It is only about sixteen feet in width, though. “Gonna go inside.”

  “Be careful. I don’t have a visual on you from here,” John says.

  He doesn’t answer because it isn’t necessary. Instead, Cory goes to the far end of the building and finds a small window that he is able to pry open without breaking the glass panes. Then he boosts himself up and into the building in one fluid motion.

  Cory takes a second to let John know he’s in. Next, he uses his night-vision gear to see his way around. As he suspected, the building does not house people. It’s a supply shed of sorts with a dirt floor. There are skids of goods and shelving units full of supplies that line the walls. The roofline is only about eight feet high, and the trusses are low. This is definitely not a structure that was on this state-owned park property before the fall. The lumber is freshly cut, the hand-hewn marks on the beams from someone who knew how to build this way before.

  He steps gingerly around a box on the ground and then stoops to inspect it more closely. “Property of Fort Knox” is stamped on the side of the ammo crate in light yellow letters. Instead of dwelling on it or speculating that it’s from Parker because these people could’ve raided Knox before he ever got there with the general, Cory keeps going.

  Next, he finds long, wooden crates, one that has been left open. They contain long rifles. Other ammo crates are marked as “Property U.S. Army,” likely from another base. Boxes that rest on the shelves contain home-canned goods such as fruits and vegetables like the girls can back home. By the time he makes it to the end of the building, Cory is becoming more and more convinced that these people really might be working with Parker or maybe even the new President since they don’t have a bead on his whereabouts yet, either.

  Then he finds the definitive piece of evidence he’s been looking for. Parker’s golf cart from Fort Knox is here. It is parked near the garage style door at the end of the building where it would be easy to access. Cory remembers riding around Fort Knox getting the grand tour in this thing. He knows it’s Parker’s because Parker told him that it was his own personal mode of transportation on the base. It was also the nicest one. He’d had it painted bright white with an American flag on the roof. On the small, front hood, he’d had an eagle painted. Cory knows he didn’t do it himself because he also told him that part, too. He’d been more than happy to brag about having work done for him. He knew Parker was a control freak and a dick. Once he’d gloated about having such luxuries afforded him by wielding authority over the citizens, Cory realized he was also a dictator. He just hadn’t known at the time how far the man was planning on going with that scheme and the ends at which he was willing to make it come to fruition.

  “It’s him,” Cory says into his throat mic to John just as the man door to his right opens, and a flashlight beam bounces around.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sam

  “Turn right here, Simon,” she directs and points to a road intersecting their own.

  “Which way?” Simon asks.

  “Left. Go left.”

  He maneuvers the Jeep and heads in that direction. They are skirting most of the city of Clarksville because it has proven dangerous in the past. They are to hole up in an apartment complex across the river and spy on what they can see from there. The camp is located down by the Cumberland River in a dense section of wooded acreage.

  “Got it,” he answers.

  “Now turn right,” she says. “We need to go north but stay away from the city. Derek said this is the best way to get there.”

  “Except there’s a roadblock of cars in the way,” Simon announces and presses on the brake.

  “Oh, crap,” she states when she looks up from the map. “Um, I guess we need to find another way.”

  “Let me back up,” he says and puts it in reverse.

  “Simon!” she nearly
shouts. “Headlights!”

  He calmly whips the Jeep in a tight circle and gets them moving in the opposite direction without the headlights on.

  “Crap, who was that?” she asks with hysteria rising in her voice as he puts distance between them and whoever was in the only other moving vehicle they’ve seen tonight. Avoiding people is essential to their safety and something the family always tries to do when on any sort of mission.

  “Not sure,” he states. “Don’t worry. They wouldn’t have seen us.”

  “How can you be so sure? We saw them!”

  Simon drives back east until he can pull over and consult the map. Then he studies the map of Clarksville that Grandpa gave them.

  “Here,” he says, indicating a road. “We should take this. It’ll bring us right back there if we come in from the north.”

  “Simon, what about that car?”

  “Probably passing through,” he says. “If we see it again, we’ll ditch the Jeep and go on foot until I can get you hidden. Don’t worry. If it’s a threat, I’ll deal with it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’s more important that we get information on this camp than if we have a run-in with someone tonight. Let’s just avoid them and be watchful.”

  She sits quietly contemplating what he’s said but would still rather leave the city. She’s been to Clarksville. Sometimes it’s worse than Nashville. She knows others in the family have also had problems here.

  They don’t see the car again but somehow manage to find the apartment complex. Navigating from maps is difficult because many of the former road signs lie on their sides, are bent or broken, or have rusted, all of which makes them hard to read and nearly impossible to find the way around.

  “This is better than I could’ve hoped for,” he comments.

  “What is?”

  Simon looks at her and points out the front windshield, “Underground parking. Best way to conceal the car.”

  “Great,” she comments as he pulls onto the ramp leading down to the parking garage beneath the apartments.