The Occupation: A Thriller

by W. J. Lundy

  Bobby stood and walked back to the foldable chair. “You want a drink?” he said, pointing to the Wild Turkey on the table. “Go ahead—and pour me one too.”

  John laughed. “You probably shouldn’t drink on those meds.”

  Bobby opened his eyes and frowned. “We got a herd of Homeland agents after us. I think I’ll risk it.”

  John had given up hard liquor years ago. Outside of the occasional beer at a special event, he didn’t even drink anymore. He looked at the bottle and frowned. “May as well. I’ll probably be dead tomorrow, anyway.”

  He reached across the table for the bottle. As bad as he wanted sleep, once seeing the bottle, a drink had been itching at his soul. Situated at the center of the table, a pair of mess tins and two turned-over ceramic camp mugs sat on a plaid rag. John flipped the mugs and poured two fingers into each then handed one to Bobby. The man chugged the liquid then held it back out for a refill.

  “I’m serious about drinking on the meds, Bobby. I’ll reload ya once, but try sipping, will ya?”

  Bobby grunted and nodded. “This your first day with the Turkey?”

  John smirked and added another two fingers to the mug. He set the bottle down and lifted his own mug to a mock salute. He sipped and felt the burn. “To your dad, and those like him,” he said.

  Bobby hesitated, surprised, then returned the salute. Together, they both took a sip and sat quietly for a moment.

  “You know he wasn’t my daddy, right? Not really,” Bobby said.

  John sighed and took another sip. “He seemed to be your father to me. He did all the things fathers do, from my perspective.”

  Taking another sip, Bobby held his eyes closed then put his head back and exhaled. “He was my grandpa. He took me in after my momma died.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” John said. “If he raised you, he was your father.”

  “Nah, ‘father’ don’t mean shit.” Bobby shrugged and shook his head. He took another long pull and reached out for a refill. This time John didn’t argue and topped off the mug. “I called him Daddy because he was more than a father to me; he didn’t have to do what he done. I was his kin, but he could have kicked me aside if he’d wanted to.”

  Bobby pulled in the glass and took another sip. “My momma was no good. She didn’t care about nobody but herself, just like the man that knocked her up. She ran off to prove she was better than Grandpa, got herself a no-good man, and then got herself killed when she realized she wasn’t no better after all.”

  “Hell, Bobby, you don’t have to tell me this shit.”

  Bobby shrugged. “What difference does it make now? You watched me murder a cop today. Who gives a shit now if my momma didn’t love me?”

  “You know what I meant,” John said.

  “You know, my grandparents took me in when I was two years old. They raised me like a I was a son, gave me everything. But they always had me call them Grandma and Grandpa. They would tell me stories about my mom. You know, things when she was younger and all of that—good stuff, never the bad.

  “When I was about ten, I was out hunting with Grandpa. I knew Momma had died when I was little, but I didn’t know much about it. And nobody ever talked about my father. When I brought it up, Grandma always got quiet. So, hell, we were out here on this mountain, bird hunting, and I asked him. I said, ‘Hey, Grandpa, where is my daddy?’”

  Bobby stopped and looked across the space at John. “You know what he told me?” Bobby laughed. “He said, ‘Don’t you worry none, son. I took care of that.’

  “Hell, that’s not what I asked though, was it?” Bobby laughed again. “I said, ‘Grandpa, what do you mean?’” He looked at John hard again. “And that old man told me everything. He told me how everything had gone wrong between him and my momma. He told me how my father had killed her, how he’d gone to prison, and how Grandpa had done everything he could to make sure that man never left prison alive. He told me he’d paid less than a hundred dollars to make sure my father suffered for what he’d done to Momma.”

  “Damn, Bobby,” John said. “I didn’t know any of this.”

  Bobby shrugged. “You know what I said after he told me all of that?” The big man took another sip from the mug. “I said, ‘Do you think it would be okay if I called you Daddy from now on?’” He exhaled. “That was the only time I saw the old man cry.”

  Bobby put his head down in his hands and breathed heavily then looked up, draining the rest of the mug before setting it on the table. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “We’re not bad people, John. Those agents—they had no right to treat us the way they did today.”

  John took a sip from his own mug. He was eager to change the conversation. “So what now? These Legion guys, they’ll meet us here? They get us to the Free States?”

  Bobby sighed. “Nah, they won’t come here until they can give the all-clear. We’ll button up and stay hidden. They’ll go to the cabin and make sure Homeland picks up a false trail. We’ll stay underground and the search helicopters’ infrared and thermal searches will miss us. Don’t worry, we got food, water, and plenty to keep us alive. There is a radio a mile down the mountain. We can use it to call the Legion if we need them.”

  “The radio is a mile away? Why not here?” John said, his feet hurting from the day’s march and not looking forward to more.

  “Radiation,” Bobby said, his words slurring now. “We have one in here, also, but we can’t use that. They’ll be sweeping and listening. Radio is encrypted—can’t afford them listening and pinpointing the location. We need to stay hidden just long enough for the Legion to get into position.”

  “Position for what? How does any of this get us out of the trouble we are in?” John said. “Are these guys going to hide us? Defend us in court? How exactly does this work?”

  The big man grunted and let out a pained laugh. “You don’t get it, do you? There is no getting out of it now. We’re on a list. If they catch us, we’re dead. We’ll never see the light of day again.” He looked at John. “You fought in Iraq, right? Afghanistan, Iran, all that shit, right?”

  “All of them,” John said.

  Bobby smirked. “You remember taking down insurgents over there. How did it work out for them if they got caught? Did they all get their day in court, or did you just turn them in to the locals to figure it out?”

  “But this isn’t the Middle East.”

  “It might as well be, Captain. Nobody beats charges against Homeland. You get turned in and you vanish.”

  “Nah, we still have rights.”

  “What, like the Constitution? Did those Iraqis have rights?” Bobby laughed. “Yeah, okay, the Constitution still works to protect the upper tier but not down here in the shadows. The Insurrection Acts changed all of that. We lost all rights once we resisted. We have no rights, John. Hell, we’re not even contracted. As far as those in charge are concerned, we don’t exist. We sure as hell don’t matter.”

  “What am I supposed to do, live in a damn cave, spend my remaining years underground?” John argued. “We should go west to the Free States.”

  Bobby yawned and looked at him. “We have other options, you know.”

  “Other options? Like what?” John asked before taking another sip.

  “We resist, do what we should have done long ago, what our forefathers would have done. We could do what those Iraqis did. It took them a decade, but they are now free again.” Bobby lifted himself from the chair and dropped back onto the cot. “You’re right, ya know. We do have rights. Someone should take them back.”

  John smiled and finished the rest from his own cup. “You’re drunk.”

  “Maybe,” Bobby said, yawning again. He put his head down and said, “Both tents have cots and sleeping bags. There is food outside the tent in the green bins. Get what you need and grab some sleep. We’ll try to contact the Legion tomorrow; they’ve been preparing for this.”

  Chapter Five

  The cabin wa
s at the top of a hill with the lights off. There was a silver sedan in the driveway, and a shed next to the house had double doors hanging open. Sheriff Ransom parked at the bottom of the hill near a private drive sign. They’d been parked there for an hour, waiting for the rest of Dawson’s search team to arrive.

  He watched as a convoy of black Suburbans rolled in and stopped behind him. Bill turned off the patrol car and looked at the woman next to him. “This is it. Are you ready to go up?”

  “You’re sure this is the place?” she asked. The first words she’d spoken to him since they left the crime scene. “I haven’t seen any movement up there.”

  “Yeah, this is it. They have the only house on Bear Hill. There are a few other cabins on the ridge. All seasonal, mostly for hunting,” he said.

  “I find it disgusting that we have a homeless population, while others have empty cabins just for leisure,” she said, looking at the structure at the top of the hill.

  Bill shrugged. “We’re kind of in the middle of nowhere here, not really where someone would want to live year-round. Hell, once the snow falls, it’s hard to even get to these places.”

  “What do you know about the cabin?” she said, ignoring his comment.

  Bill thought for a second. He knew everything about this place. He’d been invited here for deer camp, drank beer here, been here for card games. He looked straight ahead and hoped the Legion crew had already done their work and cleared the place out. He didn’t want to see the men killed for defending themselves. He looked at Dawson. “Are you going to arrest them?” he said. “Is that the plan?”

  She looked back at him. “Why else would we be here? Now, I asked, what do you know about the cabin?”

  He looked up the hill again. The place had to be empty. He knew the contingencies of such a thing; if anyone was in trouble, the Legion would protect them. That was the plan, anyway. Hell, he’d helped them work on the plan a year ago when the first of the martial law rules and the Insurrection Act was written. Protect and lead astray, find the wronged, and get them out of town. No violence, nobody gets hurt. The men would be snuck out of the area and then smuggled into a Free State in the west, where they could request asylum from prosecution.

  That’s what the Legion man told him when he was first approached over three years ago, after the corporations replaced the elected mayor with a city manager—when most of Sherman’s deputies were fired and replaced with Fred Nohrs’s cronies willing to follow his orders without question. They weren’t asking the sheriff to be complicit in crimes, but to only help those out who were being wrongly prosecuted and oppressed.

  He shook his head, trying to focus. “This is a family place; the Newsomes have owned it for as long as I can remember. Never really been up here much, though. The old man and his kid kept to themselves.”

  “Do you recognize the car?” she asked.

  He squinted and looked up the driveway. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before. Stolen maybe.” He paused, trying to see if he could identify a plate. He felt his heart rate quicken. What if the Legion were still here? He looked at the shed. The old man’s truck was gone. Whatever was in the car had to be a plant. “You know they left on foot. To beat us here, they would need wheels,” Bill said. “We could do a scan for stolen vehicles from the neighborhood.”

  “Did the Newsomes own a silver sedan?” she asked.

  Bill shook his head. “I checked earlier. Only that blue Chevy at the residence and a red Ford that is registered as being kept up here.” He stopped speaking and leaned forward, pretending to have seen it for the first time. He pointed. “That shed is empty. I bet the truck and those men are long gone.”

  She paused, then nodded. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” she said as she opened her car door.

  Bill exited the patrol car and quickly felt the presence of agents on both sides of him. Unlike at the house, these men were now heavily armed and in tactical kit. No badges, no patches for identification. He looked at Dawson and saw that she had her sidearm unholstered and held in front of her. Bill did the same, drawing his Sig. She looked to one of the men in black and nodded. They moved on up the driveway as she walked slowly along the side of the drive. She was letting the team move on ahead. Bill knew the maneuver; she would let the tough guys do the dirty work and wait for the all-clear before she moved up.

  “Who are these guys?” he asked her.

  She looked at him sideways. “Homeland, who did you think they were?”

  He turned and looked at the Suburban behind them. It was blacked out, no markings. “I get they are Homeland, but are they in state? I don’t recognize any of them.”

  “Why are you asking, Sherriff?”

  He shook his head. “It’s just the tactical team and the vehicles. We’re at least six hours from Detroit. And I know you don’t have guys kitted up like this in Houghton.”

  She dipped her chin. “That’s a keen observation, Sheriff. Yes, the team was flown in from Milwaukee. We lucked out having them in this close. They just finished decommissioning a police station there. They scrambled here about the same time I did. Flown in and put on the ground in record time. The vehicles are on loan. Aside from being black and shiny, they are nothing special. The rest of their gear is still on the way here in case this becomes a prolonged search.”

  “The rest of their gear?”

  “Vehicles mostly, and the high-tech stuff. Hopefully, this all ends tonight, and it will just continue on down to wherever it is needed next.”

  Dawson stopped walking, held up a hand, then pointed to her ear. Bill hadn’t noticed she was wearing an earpiece. “The sedan is empty; they are ready to breach.” She waited, looking up the drive. There was a slam and splitting of wood that carried in the air, followed by a series of shouts. She turned and continued walking. “The house is clear. We can go on up.”

  She holstered her weapon and said, “You asked if they were in state. I’m not sure what you are getting at, but Homeland has a strict policy of no homesteading.”

  “Homesteading?” Bill asked.

  “You are not allowed to work in the state you are from. Hell, in most circumstances, you cannot even work in a state you have relatives in,” she said. “That’s one of the reasons the tactical team is always moving.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Undue influence. This is a tough job. We cannot afford to build relationships in the communities we serve.”

  “Serve, is that what they call it?” Bill wanted to take the words back as soon as they left his mouth.

  She stopped and turned to face him. “Listen, Sheriff, we enforce the law. We restore order, and, yes, many of the laws we have been charged to carry out are not popular. That’s why Homeland is here. Without us, it would be you doing door-to-door confiscations and relocations. Are you prepared to do that?”

  “You know we wouldn’t,” Bill said.

  Dawson grimaced. “And it’s why we can’t be stationed at home, because we probably wouldn’t either if we knew and grew up with the people we were arresting.”

  “If you know it’s wrong, then why do you do it?” Bill asked.

  “Who says it’s wrong?” She laughed. “I grew up in San Francisco. I don’t give a shit about your guns, but that doesn’t mean I don’t empathize with people.” She stepped closer. “Let me guess… are you a veteran, or a lifetime cop.”

  “I’ve always been a cop, just like my father was.”

  She grinned and pointed up the hill at the house. “See those people … those men up there that are armed to the teeth? Every member of that tactical team has never served in the military, they have never worn a badge. They have no conflicts to prevent them from doing their job. They will not hesitate to kill if someone threatens their mission.”

  “But what about the oath?” Bill said.

  She bit her lower lip and smiled out of the side of her mouth. “We take an oath to support and defend the President of the United States of America.”

  “
You mean support and defend the Constitution,” Bill said.

  “I didn’t stutter.”

  Bill was relieved when she turned and continued her walk up the driveway. He cursed himself for showing his cards. If she suspected his loyalty in anyway, she could have him arrested. He’d heard horror stories of sheriffs being detained for failure to cooperate. Bill took a deep breath and holstered his weapon and quick-timed it up the hill to join her side. As they reached the front door to the cabin, they were met by one of the tactical team, his face hood now removed. Bill quickly noticed that the door had been sledged in, the lock and handle destroyed. The man in the doorway greeted Agent Dawson but put a hand up, stopping the sheriff.

  Bill held up. Dawson turned so that she was between him and the tactical officer. “I know this is a difficult job, Sheriff, but I have to know I can trust you. This is a manhunt, and I don’t know the locals or the terrain. Can we count on you to help us out?”

  Bill swallowed hard and nodded his head. “I’m sorry if what I said earlier came out wrong. We’re all on the same side here. I lost one of my people today also. I want them brought to justice just as badly as you do.”

  She looked at him coolly, but he could tell there was sympathy there. “C’mon inside, I need your help.”

  She turned and went in as the tactical officer stepped aside, clearing the way. A tall man met them in what would have been the living room of the cabin. All the furniture was overturned. Looking through the open concept, Bill could see the kitchen had suffered the same fate. The place had been destroyed. Tables and chairs broken, kitchen cabinets dumped out.

  “Did you do this?” Dawson said, pointing at the destruction.

  The big man reached in his pocket and removed a pouch of tobacco. He stuffed a wad in his lip then said, “Was like this when we got in. Someone shook this place and turned it upside down.”