The Mechanics: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series

by Bobby Akart

  Morrell crawled to check on the young private who survived the blast. He was huddled behind the barrier, holding onto his M4 with a death grip.

  “Are you hurt, soldier?” asked Morrell. The sound of several four-wheelers could be heard in the distance.

  “Not too bad, sir,” replied the young man. He wiped the blood off his face with the sleeve of his wounded left arm.

  “Let me see this,” said Morrell as he examined the arm. The soldier winced with pain as he turned his arm over and back. “You’ll be fine, soldier. I’ve got the same problem.” He showed the young man his shrapnel-torn left arm.

  Morrell looked to his left and saw Shore dismount from the ATV and approach him in a low crouch. He could see the worry on his CO’s face. Things weren’t right. Shore checked in by radio with the other patrols along the front gate.

  More four-wheelers were approaching from 1PP, as it was all hands on deck. Shore instructed them to reinforce the western boundary of the front gate. He turned his attention to Morrell.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Sir, the truck stopped about a hundred meters out,” replied Morrell. “I instructed it to stop, and then it began rolling forward again.”

  “I thought I heard gunfire,” said Shore as he continued to look nervously back and forth.

  “Yes, sir. They punctured and then detonated an explosive device contained in the back. It was dark, sir, and I was blinded by the headlights.”

  They were interrupted by the squawk of the radio. “This is Bravo Six. Vehicle is approaching slowly. Now half a click. Permission to open fire!” the soldier shouted.

  “Hold your position,” replied Shore. “They are out of range at this point. Draw your aim on the vehicle’s tires. Repeat. Shoot the tires.”

  “Roger that, Alpha One. Range now two hundred meters, sir.”

  “Open fire. Shoot the tires!” yelled Shore. The rapid fire of the soldier’s automatic weapon filled the air. Then another explosion lit up the sky to the west, and a fireball quickly ascended above the tree line.

  “Bravo Six, this is Alpha One,” said Shore into his radio. Morrell caught Shore’s glance. There was silence for a stressful moment. Shore repeated the request. “Bravo Six, Alpha One. Over.”

  “Go for Six.”

  “Sitrep.”

  “Vehicle exploded, sir. Roughly two hundred meters from our position. No casualties, sir.”

  Shore leaned against the barrier and responded, “Stay frosty, Bravo Six.”

  “Roger that, Bravo Six out.”

  More soldiers arrived at the front gate, and Shore quickly dispatched them along the front entrance. The sun was rising in the east and visibility would improve.

  The wounded soldier spoke up. “Sirs, you might want to take a look at this.”

  Morrell and Shore turned their attention from the radio and looked over the HESCO barriers. There was movement across the clearing and beyond the still-burning skeleton of the pickup truck. Armed men were scurrying from tree to tree, taking up positions across the gravel entry road.

  Shore alerted the others on the front gate patrol. “Bravo Six, Charlie Three, this is Alpha One. Over.”

  “Charlie Three. Go, Alpha One.”

  “Go for Six.”

  “We’re being approached by hostiles,” instructed Shore. “We are under assault. Lethal force authorized. Repeat. Lethal force authorized.”

  “Roger that. Charlie Three out.”

  “This is Bravo Six. Hostiles approaching—” crack crack crack “—moving through the woods … four-wheelers approaching. Open fire!”

  More Marines were arriving from 1PP, and they were immediately directed to lend support to Bravo Six along the western fence line.

  “Sir,” interrupted the soldier, grabbing Morrell’s attention. “They’re moving closer.” Morrell looked up and saw the approaching armed men moving quickly through the woods and into the clearing.

  Shore gave his orders. “Open fire!”

  Morrell lifted his M16 over the barrier. The large weapon thumped in a quick report as it poured round after round into the approaching attackers. The bullets tore through their bodies, leaving bloody masses of death in the gravel. The young soldier followed his lead and began firing upon the remaining assailants hidden in the woods. Their rounds ripped flesh and shredded the bark of the trees that were being used for cover.

  Humvees were approaching from the south as Shore moved away from Morrell to greet them. From the turret, a gunner lit up the forest across the way. The fifty-caliber rounds from the Ma Deuce ripped saplings in half and cut down the retreating men with ease. Shore called for them to cease fire, and additional troops were posted along the two-mile long perimeter fence and the front gate. Except for the smoldering trucks and the smell of spent rounds, the scene became eerily still.

  But then a high-pitched whine could be heard in the distance. Morrell looked up, thinking it was a drone. The noise grew louder.

  “Sir, are those drones?” asked Morrell.

  Shore looked up and then around their perimeter. “No,” he replied. “Those are boats!”

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, October 1, 2016

  5:01 a.m.

  Prescott Peninsula, 1PP

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  It was Rebecca’s scream and not the blast from the front gate that woke Donald from a deep sleep. His dreams had been vivid lately, and the subconscious sound of an explosion would not necessarily stir him awake. The shrieks of his seven-year-old daughter did.

  “Susan, did you hear that?” asked Donald, still groggy and unsure of what happened.

  Now Penny was awake and holding her sister on the fold-out sofa bed across the room in their small bungalow. Both were crying. Susan bolted upright and immediately ran to comfort their daughters.

  “It sounded like a bomb,” replied Susan. The girls’ crying increased as Donald quickly got dressed. He strapped on his leg holster, which contained his .45.

  “Stay here.” Donald leaned down in front of the girls and wiped the tears from their cheeks. “I need you guys to calm down and be big girls, okay?”

  They both nodded, but the tears continued to flow. Donald touched Susan’s cheek and lifted a finger to his lips to be quiet.

  He exited into the crisp, dewy morning at the same time Steven and Katie emerged from their bungalow. Sarge was already in the clearing, instructing Abbie and several of the Boston Brahmin to return to their tiny houses.

  It was still dark, but the sun was peering over Mount Zion to their east. It was also quiet except for the sounds of four-wheelers and crunching gravel in the distance.

  “Sounded like a bomb exploded near the front gate,” said Sarge.

  “Roger that, bro,” added Steven. “We need to get everyone inside the bunker.”

  “I agree,” said Donald. Four partially dressed Marines emerged from their sleeping quarters. “But first, we need to get 1PP secured.”

  “I’m on it.” Steven jumped in. He turned to the Marines. “Listen up, I want everyone suited, booted, and strapped. Full kits, gentlemen.”

  The Marines quickly returned to their quarters and grabbed their tactical vests filled with six thirty-round magazines and body armor plate inserts that could stop an AK-47 round at point-blank range. They included a drop pouch for spent magazines. Their kits also contained flashlights, batteries, zip-tie handcuffs, and their favorite knives. Finally, a concealment holster containing their preferred sidearm rounded out the bulky vest.

  “What can I do?” asked Sarge.

  “You and Julia—” Steven started before he was interrupted by Donald.

  “Nothing,” he said. “You two need to get inside and in the bunker now. GO!”

  “But we can—” started Julia.

  “You can do nothing,” said Donald. “We can’t risk you getting hurt. Get inside while we secure the grounds and bring the Brahmin to the bunker one family at a time. Now please go!” />
  Susan stuck her head out of their bungalow door. “Donald?”

  Donald grabbed Sarge by the arm. “Sarge, wait.” He turned to Susan.

  “Susan, grab the girls’ packs and bring them now!” he ordered. “I want you to go with Sarge and Julia.”

  J.J. joined the group. Steven and Katie were now wearing their kits and directing the soldiers to their positions.

  Donald turned to Julia. “I need you to get Sarge in the bunker and get the girls safe as well. Susan will need to help J.J. with any possible casualties.”

  “Okay,” replied Julia as the Quinn women arrived at her side.

  “Steven,” said Donald, “I need you and Katie to escort them inside and then come back for the rest. Let’s take them across the clearing one by one. Start with Abbie and Mr. Morgan.”

  As Steven and Katie escorted the contingent on the wraparound porch, Donald caught his breath and gathered his thoughts. He had an emergency plan in place for a possible attack on 1PP, but they’d never practiced it. Mr. Morgan didn’t want to cause concern among his elderly friends. Donald regretted his acquiescence now, but as long as everyone followed his directives, it would work out fine.

  J.J.’s voice brought Donald back to the present. “What can I do?” J.J. put his hand on Donald’s shoulder, reassuring him he wasn’t alone now.

  “Thanks, J.J.,” replied Donald. He motioned toward the Morgan bungalow. “Come with me. I want you to help Mr. Morgan inside and get him comfortable in the bunker. I don’t know if we’ll have casualties, but you and Susan need to be ready.”

  “Got it,” said J.J.

  Katie and Steven jogged toward them as Donald gently knocked on Morgan’s door. A frightened Abbie poked her head through the narrow opening.

  “Are we being attacked?” asked Abbie.

  “We don’t know, but we’re gonna follow protocol and get everyone into the bunker.”

  Abbie opened the door wider to allow Donald and J.J. to come in. Steven and Katie took defensive positions outside the door. Their radios came to life with a lot of chatter. Steven muted his volume and inserted an earpiece. He looked at Katie, who nodded and did the same.

  “DQ, we need to move this along,” said Steven as he stuck his head through the doorway.

  “Okay,” replied Donald, turning to Abbie. “We don’t know yet, Abbie, but we need to move quickly. J.J. will help you guys get inside and settled. Watch over your father carefully and immediately notify J.J. or Susan of any issues. Please hurry.”

  Abbie and J.J. helped Morgan get dressed and escorted him across the compound. Donald moved from door to door to the other bungalows and ordered the Boston Brahmin to get dressed and ready. Naturally, everyone had questions, but he had to minimize any conversations.

  In between evacuations, he called Brad on the satphone.

  Brad answered immediately. “This is Colonel Bradlee,” he barked.

  “Brad, this is Donald. We’ve had an explosion at—”

  Brad cut him off. “We know, Donald. Get secured. We’re on our way.”

  “Okay, Brad, I’m hearing gunfire now from the front gate. We must be under—”

  And then a second explosion drowned out his words. Donald hit the ground and crawled toward the Peabodys’ bungalow. Art opened the door and pulled Donald inside.

  “Are you all right, young man?” asked Peabody. Stella Peabody sat on the couch, crying, clutching a white handkerchief.

  “Yes, sir. Something is happening at the front gate. We need to get you both to safety.”

  Steven was outside the bungalow. “DQ, are you in there?”

  “Please come with me, ma’am,” said Donald as he helped Stella Peabody off the sofa. The three left the building and quickly followed Katie towards 1PP. Steven brought up the rear, walking backward as he surveyed the woods.

  Just as they reached the steps, they heard the barking of a small dog. Winnie the Frenchie had been left behind in the Winthrops’ bungalow.

  “Her barking will draw attention to the compound,” said Donald. He looked at Steven. “We’ve gotta get her inside.”

  “Really?” muttered Steven as he surveyed the woods and ran to retrieve the French bulldog.

  Once the contingent was inside, Art Peabody insisted upon helping. Donald sent him upstairs to the widow’s walk with a radio and binoculars. The sun was rising now, and visibility would be better for him. The widow’s walk was built with reinforced steel panels to provide ballistics protection. The height gave them a tremendous advantage over anyone attempting to breach the 1PP compound.

  Donald stood in front of the windows and stared intently toward the woods. The Marines were tucked behind stacks of sandbags at each corner of the building. Less than ten minutes had elapsed since the first explosion and the second one. In that brief time frame, Donald had successfully emptied the bungalows and brought everyone to the more secure 1PP facility. He let out a deep breath and some tension with it.

  Susan approached Donald from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of water. He immediately drank half of it before securing its cap.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “We watch and wait,” Donald replied.

  Chapter 7

  Saturday, October 1, 2016

  5:18 a.m.

  Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  Donald and Steven took up positions on the front porch of 1PP as they monitored the radio transmissions. The gunfire had stopped moments ago, but now the roar of motorboats could be heard from their east.

  “They’re coming at us from all sides!” exclaimed Donald as he ran down the front steps toward the boat launch on the east side of Prescott Peninsula.

  Steven shook his head as he quickly followed and then passed him on the trail. He and Brad had assessed the security issues surrounding Prescott Peninsula back in mid-July. Securing the two-mile entrance to the land mass was easily fortified with a security fence and the barriers at the front gate. But the massive shoreline concerned both men at the time. An attack by sea did not surprise him.

  In addition to the constant perimeter foot patrols who utilized the ATVs for rapid response, Steven had created an armageddon navy of sorts. Following the advice of his longtime associate and friend Drew Jackson, Steven contacted Stroker boats, a boat manufacturer near Knoxville, Tennessee.

  Over the summer, a dozen bass boats were outfitted for a situation like this one. The boats were modified to include ArmorCore bullet-resistant fiberglass panels. Together with the Kevlar-reinforced hoses and hydraulic systems, the Strokers proved to be excellent patrol gunships that passed as fishing boats.

  Steven arrived at the boat launch as several Marines were preparing the boats for battle. At the end of Egypt Brook, a small stream that emptied into the Quabbin Reservoir, Donald had constructed a hidden boat dock, which was obscured from view within an inlet. Before this, the modified fishing boats had not been seen on the vast reservoir.

  “What’ve we got?” asked Steven. He caught his breath as he looked out of the inlet to the southwest.

  One of the Marines, a lance corporal who was directing the removal of the pedestal-mounted boat seats, replied, “We have reports of as many as three dozen boats approaching from the south-southeast. There are multiple launches on both sides of the Winsor Dam. Hey, be careful with that, soldier!” One of the Marines had lost his footing while attaching the swivel-mounted fifty-caliber machine gun onto the pole where the fishing seat was.

  “Did you say three dozen?” asked Steven.

  “At least,” he replied. “We may be outnumbered by four or five to one.” The lance corporal turned his attention back to the task of readying the boats.

  “Fuckin’ A.” Steven laughed as he removed his sweatshirt, revealing a gray T-shirt that read Zero Fucks Given. “I’ll take point!” He bounded down the bank onto the floating dock and waited for the first boat to be ready.

  “Hey, Steven, hold up!” shouted Donald as he follow
ed Steven down the bank. He caught up to him and lowered his voice so as not to alarm the other soldiers. “Do you think this is a good idea for you to man one of these? You’re seriously outnumbered.”

  “No worries, DQ. We may be outnumbered, but we’re not outgunned.” Steven turned the Ma Deuce around on its swivel mount. Steven looked at the Marines awaiting orders on the bank. “Who’s with me?”

  “Damn it, Steven!”

  Ignoring Donald’s protests, Steven reached into a storage compartment and grabbed the high-powered Steiner marine binoculars and surveyed the water. Boats were coming at a high rate of speed around nearby Little Quabbin Hill, swamping two fishermen in a skiff paddling across the water. The skiff overturned and the men were scrambling to crawl back inside without getting run over.

  “Poor fucks,” mumbled Steven under his breath.

  “Steven, I have to let Sarge know about this!” yelled Donald.

  Steven turned and pounded his chest three times with his fist and then outlined the words on his T-shirt—Zero Fucks Given.

  “Let’s go, dammit!”

  Steven got behind the console and brought the twin 2.5-liter Mercruiser outboard motors to life. With two hundred eighty horsepower each, the Merc motors could easily achieve seventy miles per hour speeds with the additional equipment and ballistic protections added.

  Because two-thirds of the Marines were now manning the front gate, only six of the boats had the ability to field two-man crews. Wisely, Steven waited until all six vessels were ready to go.

  “Listen up,” said the lance corporal assigned to the boat dock. He gave the crews a briefing. “Our patrols at the southernmost point have fired upon several boats already. They diverted east and north of our position. More boats are approaching along the back side of Little Quabbin Hill to our south and Mount Pomeroy to our east.”

  “They don’t know about us,” added Steven, who was bursting at the seams for some action.

  “That’s right,” said the lance corporal. “I have twelve more Marines being pulled from their posts to assist. They will be ready for a second wave of attacks. In the meantime, fan out and chase the bastards out of our waters!”