The Mechanics: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series

by Bobby Akart

  “Damn straight,” shouted Steven as the other engines roared to life.

  “Remember, no friendly fire,” the corporal instructed. “It’ll be easy to have bullets flying in all directions.”

  “Shock and awe, gentlemen!” proclaimed Steven as he pushed them away from the dock. He strapped into the gunner’s position by placing his feet in the modified water ski boots bolted to the deck. This provided grip and counter-leverage against the g-forces of the boat turning in the water.

  The driver gunned the throttle and Steven’s head snapped back. His hat flew off his head and he instinctively turned to mark its position. As they roared out of the inlet toward the southeast, he had the luxury of an open field of fire. He made use of it.

  The Browning M2s mounted on the boats provided the gunner a short recoil. The heavy fifty-caliber cartridge had a fairly long range of two thousand yards and incredible stopping power. While capable of producing over forty rounds per minute, this was not sustainable. Steven knew that the Ma Deuce was most effective, and accurate, using six- to eight-round bursts.

  As Steven grabbed the spade-handle grip of the eighty-pound M2, he knew that the distinct jackhammer sound it produced would have a chilling effect on those on the receiving end of its wrath.

  Steven turned to his driver and pointed toward the northern tip of Mount Lizzie. “There!”

  The Stroker picked up speed and lurched toward the island and three approaching boats. Steven looked up to assess his opponents. The boats appeared to be open-bow runabouts similar to a Sea Ray or Wellcraft. The Stroker was quickly closing on the three boats, which were clustered in a V formation.

  “Big mistake,” Steven muttered as he opened fire. He fired eight rounds in a staccato blast of power. The lead boat, a twenty-three-foot bowrider, erupted into flames and exploded. The other two boats veered to avoid the carnage and lost control. The high-speed, abrupt turn of one of the bowriders threw all four passengers into the lake. Their boat roared to the north, unmanned. The other inboard vessel veered southward in retreat, and Steven quickly adjusted his aim, filling its stern with holes. The engine failed, and the boat immediately began to sink.

  Suddenly, bullets whizzed over their heads, and Steven instinctively ducked. To their east, a gunman was emptying an AR-15 magazine in their direction. His boat was bobbing in the wakes created by the flurry of boat activity. When his mag emptied, he saw that he had missed his intended target. The man dropped into the V-hull of the Ski Pro Extreme and his driver roared around Mount Lizzie.

  “Chase those fuckers!” shouted Steven as he regained his footing.

  The twin Mercs roared to life once again and started after the competition ski boat.

  “Veer right, veer right!” shouted Steven, pointing at a large drifting tree trunk in their path. He put a death grip on the M2 as his driver avoided destroying their props.

  Their boat quickly leveled out and continued in pursuit. The boat planed on top of the lake, its propellers under the surface as it vaulted forward after the more agile ski boat. They were a quarter mile behind the Ski Pro, but closing. Steven released a couple of bursts from the M2.

  GRRAKKA, KKAKKAKK, KKAKKAKK, KKAKKAKK.

  The movement of their boat through the water and the turbulence caused by the Ski Pro’s wake prevented any accuracy with the heavy weapon.

  “Closer!” Steven shouted.

  The Ski Pro deftly maneuvered through the string of tiny islands at the northernmost end of Quabbin Reservoir until Steven lost sight of them. He held his fist high, indicating to his driver to stop. Steven stumbled forward as the boat’s momentum unexpectedly halted their progress.

  The Stroker listed back and forth as their wake caught up with them. Steven was on alert. He’d studied the maps of the lake in anticipation of this scenario. Locals would know the waters better than he would.

  He turned to his driver. “We’re sittin’ ducks out here in the open. I don’t like it. Let’s drift up along Mount Russ to our left. Maybe they’ll make their move first.”

  The driver put the throttle in idle and slowly made their way northward. They eased closer to the shallow waters of Hip Brook Pond and Newton Pond. The water was bizarrely still considering the sounds of gunfire that echoed across the lake’s surface behind them.

  Then a flash of light—the reflection off something metallic—caught Steven’s eye. He saw the bow of the Ski Pro easing around the northern point of Mount L.

  “There!” He pointed at the boat as it revealed itself further and his driver throttled forward toward them, lifting the bow several feet out of the water. It was the horsepower of the Mercruiser engines and the torque the props created that saved Steven’s life that day.

  A barrage of bullets ricocheted off of the Kevlar-reinforced hull of their boat at that precise moment. The lucky timing saved both of their lives.

  As their boat planed out, Steven opened fire again. But the Ski Pro had quickly maneuvered and headed south again, using Mount L as a buffer.

  “Fuck me! Turn around, one-eighty!”

  The driver whipped the boat to the left and gave it full throttle. They were running parallel to the Ski Pro with Mount L as their buffer. Steven knew he had a chance up ahead and readied the M2. As they reached the end of the island, there was a narrow stretch of lake, roughly twenty yards, between Mount L and Mount Zion.

  They approached the divide at over seventy miles an hour. Steven kept his hands steady, pointing the powerful weapon at the gap. When he saw his target, he didn’t hesitate. He opened fire.

  GRRAKKA, KKAKKAKK, KKAKKAKK, KKAKKAKK.

  But the sound of the boat continued. He thought he’d hit it. He gestured for the driver to continue parallel to Mount Zion.

  What Steven could not see was the Ski Pro careening out of control, hitting a sandbar just beneath the lake’s surface and vaulting into the air. The crashing sound it made as it skidded hard into the shoreline, ejecting its already dead occupants, was unmistakable. Steven knew this battle was over.

  The Stroker came to a stop to view the scene. Along the eastern shore of Prescott Peninsula, Marines were engaging the pleasure craft at will. Small-arms fire could be heard echoing across the water, but none of the marauders’ rounds found their marks.

  On the other hand, the huge eight-hundred-grain bullets of the M2s found their marks often and easily lived up to their reputation as one-stop shot. The lake was riddled with burning, sinking boat corpses. The tide had turned against the attackers quickly, but Steven wanted more.

  “We’ve got ’em on the ropes!” shouted his driver. The dozen or so remaining boats were rapidly retreating to the perceived safety of their boat launches. “Look at ’em bolt!”

  Steven was breathing heavily from the adrenaline-fueled engagement. Undoubtedly, the battle was over before it got started. Or was it?

  “On the ropes isn’t the same as bleedin’ out!” shouted Steven in response. “We need to send a message to these fucks. Let’s go!” Steven got into position and pointed toward Winsor Dam.

  Although the retreating vessels had a healthy head start, the Stroker caught up to the slower pleasure craft and Steven handily ripped them to shreds. As they got closer to land, they began to take on small-arms fire, and he raised his fist to indicate to his driver to let off the throttle.

  One of the hostile boats beat such a hasty retreat that it didn’t slow down in time as it approached the earthen Winsor Dam. It hit the bank at full speed and catapulted up the bank and over the other side, sending its passengers flying in all directions.

  Steven began to laugh hysterically at the sight of this and added several six-round blasts from the Ma Deuce to top off the victory.

  He shouted at them, “Don’t you fuckin’ come back, assholes!”

  Chapter 8

  Saturday, October 1, 2016

  5:34 a.m.

  Prescott Peninsula

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  As the daylight grew brighter, Shor
e finally began to relax. He had positioned men along the front perimeter and added more men to the boat launch. The southernmost point was protected by two fortified machine-gun nests outfitted with .30-caliber M1919 Brownings. He was receiving updates from his men at the boat launch on the progress of the six two-man teams on the water. He had several other teams on shore, ready to engage if necessary. He was concerned with putting too many boats on the water. Friendly fire was entirely possible.

  His radio interrupted his thoughts. “Alpha One, this is Delta Two. Over.”

  “Go, Delta Two,” replied Shore.

  “Sir, we’ve discovered three pontoon boats tied off along our western shore at Lighthouse Hill, Prescott Hill, and the abandoned Rattlesnake Den launch.”

  “Goddamit!” shouted Shore, which caused Morrell and two soldiers to rush to his side.

  “What is it, sir? What did they find?” asked Morrell.

  Shore didn’t take time for explanations. He gave Morrell instructions instead. “Morrell, take one of the Humvees back to 1PP with the injured man and two others. Make them aware that hostiles are on shore and are possibly headed inland.”

  “How many, sir?” asked Morrell.

  “As many as three dozen,” he replied. “Hurry! Go! Raise them on the radio on the way and secure that perimeter!”

  Morrell didn’t waste any time as he helped the injured soldier into the Humvee and motioned for two other men to come with him.

  Shore quickly assessed his manpower. He had pulled the majority of the Marine contingent to the front gate, leaving his west flank vulnerable. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Think!

  He knew Prescott Peninsula like the back of his hand. He had walked every road and explored every trail. He had to hope the attackers didn’t know how to find 1PP, so that gave him an advantage. The aggressors, however, had the time advantage and a head start.

  Prescott Shutesbury Road ran the length of Prescott Peninsula from the front gate to the southernmost point. The 1PP compound was located half a mile to the east of this wide gravel road. He had to gamble that the attackers were tentative in their approach. They didn’t know the lay of the land. They would plan deliberately at the shore, then make their way inland toward 1PP.

  “Delta Two, Alpha One.”

  “Go, Alpha One.”

  “Pull your entire team back to the east side of Prescott Shutesbury Road. Take positions in the woods, waiting for contact from the west. Spread them out for max coverage.”

  “Roger, Alpha One.”

  Shore’s Echo Team was much farther south than the landing zone of the attackers. He wasn’t going to pull them and get caught off guard down there.

  “Foxtrot One. Alpha One. Do you copy?”

  “Five by five, Alpha One.”

  “Sitrep, Lance Corporal,” said Shore.

  “Sir, the enemy vessels have been repelled. I am maintaining six of ours on the water to establish a perimeter.”

  Shore processed the scenario. If the first-wave assault was turned away that easily with six two-man crews, the additional manpower could be redeployed to 1PP. “Foxtrot One, redeploy non-active personnel to 1PP to assist Corporal Morrell.”

  “Roger that, Alpha One. Foxtrot One out.”

  Shore now had a minimum of twelve Marines guarding the compound, led by a wounded but capable Morrell, plus the muckety-mucks, who were pretty good with their own firearms, so he’d been told. Now, I’ve got to flush out the cockroaches. The radio interrupted his thoughts.

  “Alpha One. Delta Two. Over.”

  “Go, Two,” replied Shore.

  “In position, sir. I’ve instructed two men to cover our six in case they’ve slipped past us already.”

  “Well done, Delta Two. Stand by. Over.”

  “Roger. Delta Two out.”

  Shore contemplated the risk. He’d already been attacked with two truck bombs along the northern fence line. Several dozen hostiles were killed and others were fired upon before they retreated. He hesitated to pull too many off their posts in light of these events, but he was trying to defend a large area with limited bodies.

  I’ll box them in.

  He jumped on a four-wheeler and rode to the easternmost fence posts to assess the situation. There had been no sightings of hostiles in thirty minutes. He instructed the men on post to spread out and keep a sharp eye. Any signs of movement and he was to be contacted immediately. He handpicked four men.

  “Saddle up, soldiers, we’re goin’ huntin’,” ordered Shore. He missed his beloved Barrett rifle. Jungle warfare was not his forte, but he was comfortable he was better at it than the men scared shitless in those woods. The contingent rode their ATVs down to Cooleyville Road and ditched the machines in the underbrush.

  “We’ve got two klicks to cover,” started Shore, looking into the eyes of the young soldiers. “We’ll either flush the sons of bitches out, or they’ll walk out into the open on Prescott Shutesbury Road to our welcoming committee.”

  “What are the rules of engagement, sir?”

  “We’re under attack, so we shoot to kill. We’re not acting in a law enforcement capacity, attempting to apprehend a fugitive. We are fighting an enemy who has attacked us on two fronts, so far. We have one KIA and several wounded.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A couple of more things, gentlemen. Use your suppressors. No verbal commands. We’ll spread out with two on each of my flanks. Keep constant eye contact on my hand signals. I expect these dirtbags to be bunched together in groups. Be prepared for a straggler or a scout operating alone. Take them out quietly. Gunfire will attract attention. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Shore led his team through the woods in a southerly direction parallel to the Quabbin inlet to their right, and Prescott Shutesbury Road and Delta Team to their left. Most of the leaves had turned to vibrant fall colors and some had fallen to the forest floor. They provided a quiet pad for the soldiers to make their way undetected.

  For the first twenty minutes, they moved toward Rattlesnake Den Road without incident. As the contingent approached the narrow gravel road, gunfire erupted from the southeast.

  “Alpha One. Delta Two. Over.”

  Shore raised his fist and fell to one knee. His team was now evenly spaced along the north side of Rattlesnake Den Road.

  “Go, Two,” Shore quietly responded.

  “Sir, we took fire from several hostiles at the Egypt Road intersection. Seven KIA. None of ours, sir.”

  “Roger, Delta Two. Any additional activity?”

  “A group of armed men were seen running in retreat toward the western shoreline and the boat launch, sir.”

  “Roger, Delta Two. Pull your northernmost flank to take up a position at the Barnes Road intersection. We’ll pursue them down Rattlesnake Den Road. We’ll pull out on your signal.”

  “Roger that, Alpha One. Out.”

  For several minutes, Shore waited while the remainder of Delta Team moved into position. He could hear the sounds of frantic voices and heavy feet working their way toward the boats on the western banks of Prescott Peninsula. As much as he wanted to pursue them, he couldn’t run the risk of the attackers slipping behind them to the areas already cleared.

  When the Delta Team members made contact from the Barnes Road intersection, he waved for two of them to join him. They hustled along the edge of the woods until they reached his side.

  “Catch your breath, gentlemen, and listen up. Maintain sight contact with the rest of Delta Team, and fan out like we have here. Do not let anyone cross this road. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” The men quickly replaced Shore’s men and took up their positions. Shore circled his hand in the air, indicating for his men to join him.

  “Okay, gentlemen. We’re gonna make our way down Rattlesnake Den Road past Lighthouse Hill. These fuckers are headed our way. They’ll be scared and tired. Let’s take them out if fired upon. But I want a couple of prisoners. Let’s find out who is behind this shit. Got it?�
�

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, two by two on opposite sides of the road. I’ll take the lead on the right side. Watch my hand signals. Let’s go!”

  Shore led his men down Rattlesnake Den Road. Within minutes, they heard the sound of a boat motor roar to life and move steadily away from them. He picked up the pace until he heard the sounds of men running through the woods just ahead of them. He raised his fist and motioned for the men to take up positions on the west side of the road. Four men and a teenage boy entered the opening, and Shore raised his rifle.

  “Stop,” he shouted. “Hold it right there!”

  One of the men turned and fired wildly over Shore’s head. He was killed instantly by one of the Marines. The three other men continued across the road, but the boy froze. He was holding a handgun and shaking uncontrollably.

  Half a mile down the road, several other men crossed the road, stopped briefly, and then ran into the woods. Another boat motor fired up and the group escaped. Shore approached the boy cautiously with his red dot laser trained on the teenager’s chest. More red dots joined Shore’s. The boy saw them, dropped his gun, and peed his pants.

  “On the ground or in your grave, son. Your choice.” Shore was only a few feet away from sixteen-year-old Nathaniel Archibald, son of Ronald, when the young prisoner’s knees hit the gravel of Rattlesnake Den Road.

  Chapter 9

  Saturday, October 1, 2016

  12:41 p.m.

  Prescott Peninsula, 1PP

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  Brad arrived on the scene barely an hour after the onslaught subsided. He cursed himself repeatedly for not being there. It was difficult for him to maintain his duties on behalf of the 1st Battalion, 25th Regiment and the responsibilities he undertook on the part of the Boston Brahmin. Since the cyber attack, Brad had swayed in the direction of his friends—the Loyal Nine. He was going to have to make a choice at some point. He loved his country and was proud of his service. He didn’t want to abandon his duty and his post. The uncertainty was tearing at him with each passing day.