Wretched Retribution

by E. G. Michaels

  “There’s not much on my boat right now,” Randy said. “Like I said, I had to hustle my family out of Raleigh because things were quickly going to shit there.”

  “Nobody blames you for that,” Foster said. “You did what you had to do to keep your family safe. There’s no shame in doing that.”

  “Foster, you might be able to buy some supplies from Disciple-run stores,” Gregory said. “It’s a little risky because they might try to sway you to join their ranks, but you’re from out of town, so they won’t be able to track you down easily.”

  “Good idea, but let’s consider it as plan B or C. I’d rather we stay away from their parts of town, if we can help it,” Foster said. “My gut feeling is that’s trouble looking for a place to happen.”

  “I can’t say you’re wrong,” Gregory admitted.

  “Once we cast off,” Foster said, “we want to avoid having to dock someplace to get more supplies.” He felt something digging into the left side of his back. He subconsciously reached back and felt the SWAT satellite phone there and shifted it a few inches forward. His back muscles silently thanked him for the reprieve.

  “Why?” Randy asked. “We can just dock quick enough to get fuel or supplies and still avoid trouble. We can travel close to the shoreline, so if we have any problems we can get to land pretty easily.”

  “I’m more worried about human hostiles than Reapers along the shorelines,” Foster said. “The monsters seem to avoid large bodies of water. I fully expect some groups of people will take advantage of that and use places like a marina as a gang or group base.”

  “Yeah. We ran into a few assholes as we were leaving Raleigh,” Randy said softly. “Saw one guy carjack a pregnant woman. I thought about stopping, but with my family in the car, I-I just-”

  “There wasn't much you could have done to help,” Foster said softly. “You had to worry about keeping your family safe.”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you know how to shoot?”

  “I’m rusty,” Randy admitted. “It's been years since I fired that shotgun at anything.”

  “How about you, Gregory?” Foster asked.

  “I'm decent with a pistol,” Gregory answered. “I got a Glock upstairs. I try to go to the range once or twice a month just to keep in practice. I figure you never know when you might need to use a gun to protect your family.”

  “That's good to know,” Foster said. “Randy, let me check in with the rest of my group. Then you and I can head out to your boat.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Randy quipped. He stared morosely at his coffee cup.

  “You can't stay in the house here forever,” Gregory pointed out.

  “No, I suppose I can't,” Randy muttered.

  Foster stepped out of the kitchen and had managed to get a few steps into the living room when he saw Walker coming toward him. There was a troubled look on the former Ranger's face, but Foster waited until the man was within earshot to ask what was wrong.

  “I decided to assess the place for security,” Walker said softly.

  “And?”

  “There's some real vulnerabilities.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “I'm worried about the upstairs,” Walker said. “There’s no boarding across any of the windows.”

  “That's a problem, but we already knew about it,” Foster said. “Gregory did say he’s been keeping his family hidden in the basement at night. We’ll definitely need to address that.”

  “Agreed,” Walker said. “He wasn’t kidding when he said there's no scrap wood left. Short of breaking apart the dining room table, we’re out of wood to use for fortifying the doors and windows.”

  “What about other furniture?”

  “Most of it is made out of compressed wood or particle board.”

  “Which is damn near useless to reinforce an opening,” Foster said. “Shit, that isn’t good at all.”

  Walker said nothing.

  “Breaking up and using furniture is less than ideal, but it’s better than nothing,” Foster said. “Maybe we can move some of the heavier stuff against the windows and block them for now.”

  “It would be better than nothing,” Walker admitted. “At the very least, it might slow Reapers coming through the window long enough to get everyone out of the house. I think we need to continue keeping everyone in the basement at night and keep the noise to a bare minimum.”

  “Doesn’t sound like there’s any other good options right now,” Foster said. “We should plan on sending out at least one team to do some scavenging for lumber as soon as possible.”

  “And nails. There’s practically none here.”

  “You’re kidding. There’s no nails in the house?”

  “I said practically none. There’s about a third of a box of penny nails.”

  “Which are useless for boarding up a door or window,” Foster said. “Didn’t we have some from our last location?”

  “Uh-huh. They got left along with all of our tools at the last house.”

  “In that case, we should probably add a tool box with some of the basics in each vehicle,” Foster said. “That way we have them if we need them.”

  “Sure. While we’re adding stuff, I suggest we keep a bug-out bag in each truck,” Walker said. “That’s in addition to what we carry into wherever we’re staying.”

  “All good ideas, but that’s even more stuff we need to scavenge and find,” Foster said. He pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off a looming headache. “I feel like the list of stuff we need to survive just keeps growing longer and longer.”

  “Blame it on the Reapers,” Walker replied. “The days of stopping by the grocery store or Home Depot on your way home from work are now gone.”

  “Home Depot,” Foster said excitedly. “I saw one on the way into town. I bet they’d have everything we need.”

  “Sure,” Sams said. “There’s a Lowe’s Hardware store, too. I bet you go to either one and you’ll find a few hundred Reapers waiting for you in their personal playhouse.”

  “Derrick raises a good point,” Walker said. “Unless all of us are going, we should stick with mom-and-pop stores for scavenging. Otherwise, the odds of succeeding will be extremely low.”

  “Gregory is our local guide,” Foster said. “I’ll ask him for some possible locations. Anything else?”

  “The front door sucks,” Sams said. “I doubt it would hold up to much of a breaching attack.”

  “That was next on my list,” Walker said. “The door is hollow.”

  Foster swore under his breath. “All the more reason for us to get what we need for Randy's boat and get the hell out of here.”

  “I couldn't agree more,” Walker said. “The problem is we’re going to need at least one day, maybe two, to collect everything we need before casting off.”

  “Fuel might be a problem, too,” Foster admitted. “I’m going with Randy to check out the boat and assess the marina. I’m hoping we can fuel up there. Otherwise, we have to worry about hauling gasoline to the boat and refueling it manually.”

  “Ugh. Even if we can clear out the Reapers at the marina, we don’t know if the marina pumps are still operational,” Walker said. “I’m really not digging the idea of lugging containers of fuel.”

  “We don’t know where we’re casting off to,” Sams pointed out. “So how can we know how much fuel we’re going to need?”

  “Filling the tank is usually a good start,” Walker replied. “But I get your point.”

  “It’s probably going to take more than one tank of fuel,” Sams said. “And how do we know any other potential destinations won’t be far worse than Rehoboth? At least we can walk the beach here.”

  “You mean, when you’re not avoiding Reaper packs and the Disciples looking for new candidates to convert,” Foster said. “Don’t worry; I’ll figure out an alternate place for us to set off toward.”

  “You might want to figure out it soon,” Sams said. “Even with reinf
orcing this place, I’m not convinced it would hold up to a sizable Reaper attack.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was a distinctive knock at the door, and Ezekiel called out to enter without bothering to look up from his desk. The door opened slowly, and Joseph stepped in, carefully closing the door behind him.

  “You asked to see me?” Joseph asked.

  “Yes. I was wondering how our recruitment efforts are going.”

  “Good. Great,” Joseph said. “Never been better.”

  Ezekiel set his pen down carefully on his desk and said, “Really?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “When you've known somebody as long as I've known you,” Ezekiel said, “You learn their habits and their mannerisms. You learn how to tell when they're telling the truth and when they're not. Joseph, please don’t insult my intelligence and lie to me.”

  “I'm sorry, sir.”

  “What's really going on?”

  “We're actually seeing a decrease in recruitment.”

  “Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Well, it's not due to a lack of effort,” Joseph admitted. “The thing is, in the best of times, there's a limited number of people in the Rehoboth Beach area. At this time of year, it’s off-peak for the tourists, so there’s just a few thousand locals here.”

  “What about the surrounding areas?”

  “We’re trying to expand,” Joseph said. “The problem is, we don't have as much influence there. Especially since a lot of people have already fled the area to get away from those things.”

  “Reapers?”

  “Yes,” Joseph said. “Heaven knows I hate that name.”

  “I'm afraid for many of them, it's quite fitting,” Ezekiel said. “Please continue.”

  “The thing is, the people who were able to get away have already done so. The ones who decided to stay here either didn’t have another place to go, or maybe they’re hiding in the hopes that the monsters don't find them.”

  “Interesting. Have you tried spreading the word on how we have been chosen as God's people? Or how we’re able to use the Reapers as our protectors?”

  “I have, and some people have stepped forward to ask for more information. But lately, it hasn't been as many as we expected.”

  “It seems like some people have too many options in front of them.”

  “I'm not sure I follow, sir.”

  “Perhaps we need to limit their options.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “God has chosen us as his blessed flock. He has given us these Reapers as our protection against people who may want to try and harm us,” Ezekiel said. He stood up and began to pace as he talked. “Then a portion of our congregation has stepped forward and embraced a similar role.”

  “The Guardians.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Ezekiel continued. “This area is part of God's lands. And since we are God’s chosen people, that would in turn make this our lands.”

  “We’ve been using that argument more frequently lately. One of our guardians, Walter, has been claiming anything found on our lands belongs to the Disciples.”

  “I like it,” Ezekiel said excitedly. “See that he is rewarded for his quick thinking.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “I’m curious, how well is it working?”

  “I-It seems to have worked with some of our new recruitments.”

  “But not all?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “I see. I have something I want you to do for me, Joseph.”

  “Of course, sir. What is it?”

  “Make it more difficult for anyone to leave this area.”

  “You mean, like roadblocks?”

  “Among other things, of course. In short, make our people spread the word: God has given us the ability to control these monsters. We command these monsters to protect us. Join our group, and you'll be spared.”

  “We’re already telling prospects that,” Joseph reminded him. “I'm not sure how much effective the message is with some people.”

  “Then perhaps I'll arrange for a demonstration or two to help convince them,” Ezekiel said with a smile. “But we need to make sure that it's very difficult for anyone to leave without our blessing.”

  “It won't be easy. There’s a lot of the town we don’t have control over right now.”

  “I don't expect it to be,” Ezekiel said, “but I'm confident you'll find a way to make it happen. Remember, God has blessed the Disciples of the Divine. He has blessed this place we call home, too. He has given his word that everything in this area is ours.”

  “As you wish, Ezekiel,” Joseph said. He bowed briefly, then turned and left the room. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Not at this time. Thank you, Joseph.”

  Joseph bowed once, then turned and left the room. Ezekiel watched as he opened the door, stepped through, and closed it behind him, returning to his paperwork. By leaving it up to Joseph how to make it happen, he gave him a level of deniability. If any of his congregation somehow found the courage to ask him if he was responsible for preventing them from leaving town, he could look them in the eye, quite convincingly, and tell them no.

  Chapter Twenty

  Vasquez eased the F-35 Lightning II down until the landing wheels made contact with the tarmac. She heard them chirp and began to throttle her single-engine plane down until it gradually came to a complete stop. She felt a yawn escape her mouth and realized she felt utterly exhausted. After more than twelve hours in the air, it was no wonder why. At least she’d had the hindsight to call base and request additional air support for Fort Devers. Hopefully, someone else from her base would be able to help the under siege military installation while she was offline.

  Vasquez pressed the latch, and the F-35’s hatch began to open. A moment later, she saw the mobile staircase had arrived and she used it to disembark her plane. She began to walk toward the building where the pilot’s quarters would be found. With a little bit of luck, she’d find an open bunk without any trouble. She spotted a soldier trotting in her direction, and her spirits started to sink a little.

  The soldier stopped in front of her and threw up a quick salute.

  Vasquez returned it half-heartedly. She was dog tired, and right now the only thing she was thinking about was getting some sleep. She pulled off her helmet, revealing her closely-cropped short hair, and tucked it under her arm so she could hear the private better.

  “Captain, you're needed in the Pilot Briefing Room,” the soldier said.

  “Please tell me you're kidding,” Vasquez protested. “I just landed.”

  “Wish I was, ma'am. Colonel Johnson wants all incoming pilots to report to him immediately.”

  “Great. Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not an option,” the soldier answered. “I’m supposed to make sure you report in a timely manner.”

  “Private, I’ve been in a plane for the last twelve hours. Right about now, I would kill somebody for a good cup of coffee and a hot meal.”

  The man shifted his hand to his holstered weapon, and Vasquez quickly blurted, “Relax, Private. I was kidding.”

  “Captain, I need to escort you to the Pilot Briefing Room.”

  Vasquez shook her head in disbelief. “Join the Air Force. Travel and get to see the world,” she quipped. “The only thing I'm seeing is the inside of my cockpit.”

  “You don't want to keep the colonel waiting,” the soldier answered. “He’s not in the best of moods.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said. Vasquez pushed past the soldier and trudged toward the briefing room. She saw the soldier was following her a few steps back. “Don’t worry. I’m too damn tired to hop the fence and go AWOL.”

  “You shouldn’t joke about that,” the soldier said. “It’s been a real problem at some of our bases.”

  “Private, remind me to invite you to the next party I throw.”
<
br />   “Ma'am?”

  “You have a natural gift for making people want to leave.” Vasquez turned and continued walking without waiting to see if the soldier had any type of verbal comeback.

  Ten minutes later, she trudged into the pilot briefing room and saw there were five other pilots already sitting. Each one of them looked as tired as Vasquez felt.

  “Vasquez, you look like shit,” Captain Tom “Ace” Sanders whispered as he moved his helmet off the seat next to him and motioned that it was available for Vasquez if she wanted it. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” she whispered back. “It’s temporary for me. What’s your excuse?”

  Sanders chuckled under his breath. He offered a fist to Vasquez, and she gave it a quick bump in return.

  “Captain Vasquez, grab a seat,” Colonel Johnson said. “I’m about to start the briefing.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Vasquez muttered. She flopped into the seat that Sanders had cleared for her.

  “What was that, Captain?” Johnson answered back.

  “I said, I’m glad I’m not late,” Vasquez lied.

  A series of chuckles sounded out. The colonel flashed an angry look at the pilots, and the room immediately went silent.

  Vasquez set her helmet carefully on the floor between her feet. She had heard through the grapevine that their helmets cost the military four hundred thousand dollars apiece. She didn’t doubt it, but since the helmet was customized for her and vital for controlling her plane, there was no way in hell she was letting it out of her sight anytime soon.

  “We have a priority mission,” Johnson continued. “We have identified several high value targets containing high concentrations of hostiles. We aim to take those targets out. This mission, code named Operation Flashpoint, begins at 0400.”

  Vasquez looked at her watch, and her eyebrows went up. She had five hours max until she had to be back in the cockpit. Five hours to grab some sleep, and that's if she skipped grabbing a shower. She casually tilted her head and sniffed near her armpit and immediately decided that skipping a shower wasn't an option. Maybe she could grab a fast shower and sleep in her flight suit. She’d look a little rumpled when she woke up, but the shower might help her fall asleep faster. Odds were, nobody would bother to pointing out she wouldn’t look neatly pressed under the circumstances. When it came to the schedules they were keeping, everyone on the base was burning both ends of the candle with a blowtorch lately.