The Mechanics: A Post-Apocalyptic Fiction Series

by Bobby Akart

  The young woman grabbed her boyfriend’s arm and picked up the pace. Latrell started running toward them and he glanced over his shoulder to see his gang brothers closing the gap. He raised the hammer and let out some type of guttural yell. The throaty sound was indiscernible, but it frightened the couple and caused them to drop their belongings. At first, they broke into a sprint up the sidewalk, which turned into a run for their lives.

  “Get the white dude,” shouted Jacko as he and the other two men were almost upon them. “We’ll take care of the ho for you!”

  Latrell focused his attention on the guy, who lost his footing and stumbled in his effort to observe his attackers. This brief slip caused the couple to slow, and Latrell was nearly upon them. His heart was pounding. He thought he could fly. He had reached the shoulder, the highest level of the methamphetamine-fueled rush. Die, white boy!

  As the final few feet between them closed, Latrell raised the claw hammer over his head and swung at the man, but …

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday, October 26, 2016

  4:09 p.m.

  Rooftop of the New England Conservatory

  Huntington Avenue near Northeastern University

  Boston, Massachusetts

  One shot, one kill.

  The crack of the sniper’s rifle reverberated off the canyon walls of the buildings flanking Huntington Avenue. The .308 round penetrated and exploded within the target’s chest, immediately stopping his forward momentum with a clothesline effect.

  He quickly loaded another round into the chamber of his standard Gladius .308 rifle, although it was far from standard. The bolt-action tack driver was his favorite post-service rifle. His muscular right arm, bearing a tattoo which read 1S1K, effortlessly operated the bolt and readied another round.

  Two of the attackers stopped, but one continued toward the young girl. The expert killer took a deep breath and focused on his next target through the Nightforce scope. In daylight or properly set up, it would’ve been an easy shot. But with darkness limiting his scope’s range, he ran the risk of being less accurate.

  He exhaled and gently squeezed the trigger of the powerful rifle.

  CRACK!

  “Hit,” he muttered to himself, continuing to look through his scope at the remaining assailants.

  Two shots, two kills.

  Real time stands still for the sniper, but the mind races at lightning speed. His mind always found its way back to a mountain ridge high above that village in Afghanistan. He and his spotter, a young guy nicknamed Eagle Eyes, had been dropped off the night before by a Chinook helicopter. They made camp several klicks away from their position before getting set up in the early morning hours.

  Eagle Eyes earned his nickname when the members of his scout sniper unit found out he had been an editorial intern for Random House books. He was also deadly accurate at the game of darts. His combination of attention to detail and a good eye made him an excellent spotter for a scout sniper.

  The sniper team wore heavy ghillie suits designed to obscure their position. Together with strategically placed vegetation, the suits made them nearly undetectable to the enemy, and their target. The team spent a considerable amount of time customizing their ghillies. There was always the potential of spending long hours or even days in these outfits as they waited for the perfect opportunity to complete their mission. A bureaucrat’s idea of a one-size-fits-all suit wasn’t acceptable. Their lives depended upon comfort and concealment.

  He and Eagle Eyes had determined the optimal position that provided the best line of sight to their target. Based upon the intelligence report they received, their mark would exit a mosque in the center of town. Once they reached the top of the hill overlooking the village, they hit the ground and crawled into position. The extra layer of canvas on the front of their suits provided a cushion from the hard rock and dried brush typical of the Afghan landscape.

  Eagle Eyes checked his watch and announced that they should get ready. The team completed their range card and made the necessary adjustments. Then they turned their attention to the village. He observed the dusty streets through the eight-magnitude Nightforce scope mounted on his beloved .300 Winchester rifle.

  “Overseer in position,” Eagle Eyes reported over the comms as he searched for their target through his finder. The team was far enough away from the village that their shot would reverberate through the valley below them, helping shroud their location.

  Several groups of men began to emerge from the mosque. Briefly, they congregated not far from the entrance and then began to slowly drift away.

  The sniper team undertook this mission without the benefit of a drone flying overhead. This was a high-value target and command didn’t want the Taliban leader to go back into hiding in a cave somewhere.

  Eagle Eyes found their target. He announced this into his comms for the benefit of the interested eyes and ears in safer parts of the world.

  “Target identified, sector B, right forty, add fifty.”

  Eagle Eyes continued. “Single target, light-colored khet partug and Peshawari cap, smoking cigarette.”

  The sniper shifted slightly, the ground crunching underneath him. He sought out the target through his scope. There!

  “Roger, single target, light-colored Afghan clothing,” repeated Eagle Eyes as he looked through his spotter scope.

  “Repeat, target identified. I have two mils crotch to head, confirmed!” the sniper exclaimed.

  “Roger, two mils crotch to head, dial five hundred on your weapon.”

  He made the adjustments called for by Eagle Eyes and confirmed it back to him. Eagle Eyes continued. “Wind left to right, four miles per hour, hold one-eighth mil to the left.” He made the final setting, dialing it in with precision.

  The factory setting on the Remington trigger was tuned to two pounds, which was a fairly light pull compared to others in his unit. When he was a boy, his dad taught him to respect the gun. Don’t jerk it when you fire. He became accustomed to a light trigger that didn’t offer any resistance.

  Ready. Set. Squeeze. Boom.

  The recoil hammered the folding stock into his shoulder. The ground vibrated beneath him. The feeling was exhilarating, powerful.

  The long-range, high-velocity round left a slight vapor trail as it flew through the air, creating a distortion.

  “Hit. Center mass, stand by,” said Eagle Eyes. The target collapsed in a heap, generating a smile from the duo.

  Then a young boy, not more than nine years old, who was concealed behind the target, stood stunned, dumbfounded. Blood poured out of his mouth as he attempted to reach for his throat, which was punctured by a bullet fragment that passed through the target’s body. His empty eyes looked in their direction before he fell to the earth, convulsing. He held the boy in his sights for a few seconds before Eagle Eyes pried him away.

  It was his first and second kill.

  In his debrief, he was told the boy’s death was collateral damage, a casualty of war. He was ordered to shake it off. He would never forget that child twitching in the dirt next to his dead father.

  A shriek coupled with the sound of gunfire brought him back to the present. During his brief moment away, the other two thugs could have escaped, but they didn’t. Oh no, they were stupid. One of the men ripped a handgun from his waist and began firing wildly in the air. He never had a chance to identify the hidden lair of the sniper.

  CRACK! The sound was deafening in the still of the approaching darkness.

  Three shots, three kills.

  Finally, the fourth man got the message and hurdled over the barrier. He crossed Huntington Avenue into an alley, and he was gone.

  He finally exhaled, relieving the tension. Three lifeless bodies bled out on the sidewalk. No cars. No trains. No bustling students scurrying off to their next destination. Only a cool gust of wind washed across his body. Then he heard it, faintly, but noticeable.

  A woman’s voice.

  “Thank you!”
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  Now, that was a first.

  Chapter 25

  Thursday, October 27, 2016

  4:00 p.m.

  630 Washington Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Katie and Steven made idle conversation with some of the more familiar members of the Mechanics before the meeting got started. This was the last time the unit leaders would gather in this location. Because of the increased presence of UN troop patrols, they didn’t want to be caught returning to the same location repeatedly.

  Steven, with Katie’s assistance, divided the city into logical sections. A unit leader was assigned to each section based upon their familiarity and ties to the neighborhood. Local knowledge provided the Mechanics a significant advantage over O’Brien’s people. This was a critical advantage when fighting an insurgent war.

  “Gentlemen, let’s get started,” said Steven. “First, let me reiterate that this will be our last meeting here. I’ve gotten together with all of our unit leaders and you know your territories. Our ability to communicate is solid. Face-to-face meetings, especially in the same location, are just too risky. If it becomes necessary for all of us to plan a major operation, we’ll rotate to another place.”

  The leaders of the Mechanics mumbled between themselves as they nodded in agreement. Almost all of them wore some type of jacket or headgear that bore the stitched patch of the Rebellious Flag. It was the closest thing they had to a uniform, but it was symbolic of the modern patriot movement they were proud to be a part of.

  “Does anybody have any questions about their neighborhood assignments?” asked Steven.

  A hand came up from the rear and a stout ex-grunt approached the front of the room. “We haven’t seen Sarge at our last few meetings. He’s been a real inspiration to us. Is he okay?” Several voices in the room could be heard agreeing that the question was valid.

  Katie bristled. Assert yourself, Steven. These are your men.

  Steven snapped back, “Sarge has a lot on his plate, as do we. I’ve got a shit ton of experience in black ops, and he doesn’t.”

  The former Army infantryman backed off the question. “I didn’t suggest anything by that, sir. Some of us were wondering, that’s all.”

  Steven took a breath and continued. “Listen, Sarge is my brother. We took different paths growing up. When we were kids, he was winning spelling bees while I was sailing a skiff around the Charles. He went to college to become a brainiac. I went to college to learn how to blow shit up. We’re about to enter the blowing-shit-up phase of our resistance. I’m better suited for this.”

  Steven took some time to relay events from around the country. The men seemed to be motivated by the fact that other parts of the country were experiencing success in their insurgent operations. They covered what had been working against the UN roadblocks and established a neighborhood warning system for when door-to-door searches were imminent.

  Finally, they discussed recruiting, and several new faces were introduced. Because this was the last meeting at the former site of the Liberty Tree and no specific ops were to be discussed, Steven had allowed unit leaders to bring some of their prized new recruits.

  “Why don’t some of the new guys come forward, introduce yourselves, and tell us what you did before the collapse,” said Steven.

  One portly fellow stepped forward and introduced himself. “My name is Isaac Grant, and I was a delivery driver for a meat packin’ company. Now I’m packin’ heat.”

  The group laughed as Steven nodded his head in approval. Humor was good.

  “I remember you. Weren’t you one of the drivers on the Food Bank job?”

  “I was,” he replied.

  “Well done. Who else?”

  Another man stepped forward. He was thin, balding, and spoke like he had a mouthful of nails. “My name is Rory Elkins. I was an audio-visual security enhancement specialist.”

  “A what? A TV repairman?” The room burst into laughter. Steven laughed, but he didn’t wait for a response. “Oh, sorry, you were being serious.”

  Chapter 26

  Friday, October 28, 2016

  10:00 a.m.

  1PP

  Quabbin Reservoir, Massachusetts

  The post-collapse operation envisioned by the Loyal Nine was in full swing. Like any plan, there were improvised revisions. Plan A was only the first letter of the alphabet; there were another twenty-five options waiting in the wings. It was the Scottish poet Robert Burns who wrote the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. The same principle applied to their meticulously conceived preparedness plans.

  One of the most important aspects of their plan was communications and information gathering. Julia had won a Marconi Award for the development of the Boston Herald Radio Network. It was hailed as a brilliant solution to a dying form of media—the printed newspaper.

  Building upon her success, Julia’s thoughts turned toward the possibility of a catastrophic collapse event, like last month’s cyber attack, which could collapse the nation’s power grid and its complex interconnected communications system.

  Julia’s forethought provided the Loyal Nine the ability to gather information, monitor government transmissions, and broadcast to ham radio operators and AM band listeners across the globe. She was dialed into information resources and like-minded patriots.

  She first unveiled the Digital Carrier Pigeon to their group in April. It achieved several goals. First, it helped satisfy a basic characteristic of human nature—the quest for knowledge. In the first few moments following the cyber attack, Americans turned to their smartphones for answers. Millions of calls were initiated, text messages sent, and attempts to download web pages were astronomical. The inability to access these basic functions of an advanced society caused a panic, resulting in societal collapse. Within hours!

  As the chaos subsided, America looked for answers, and then hope. The government provided the nation little of either. While communications initiated by the administration were frequent, they were primarily dictates and directives. There wasn’t a single broadcast offering solutions for those trying to survive. Nor were there any ideas advanced to restoring America to its former greatness envisioned by the Founding Fathers.

  Tonight, as part of a broader plan, Sarge would begin broadcasting a weekly address to the nation. It would contain a message of hope and renewal. It would call on like-minded patriots to band together for the good of the country.

  “Thanks, everybody, for making your way out here today,” started Sarge. He looked at Steven. “I realize the UN forces have clamped down on routes in and out of the city.”

  Steven scooted Donald over on the love seat so that he could sit. “Hi, DQ!” He promptly put his arm around Donald’s shoulder and started messing with his hair.

  Donald swatted it off and said, “Get your manly arms off me!”

  Steven laughed and removed his arm. He continued. “We’ve created our own ways of ingress and egress,” said Steven. “It’s a little bit over the river and through the woods, but it works when necessary.”

  Sarge turned to Brad and asked, “Any more activity at Fort Devens?”

  “Nothing major,” he replied. “They are watching us. We take precautions when we head this way, but we’d be naïve to think that Prescott Peninsula wasn’t on O’Brien’s radar.”

  Sarge held a set of rolled-up maps, which he used as a pointer. A four-foot-by-six-foot combination blackboard and corkboard on wheels stood patiently behind him. He got down to business.

  “This will be the last group meeting for a while,” said Sarge. He was standing in the center of the group and approached the board. “Steven has effectively aggravated the UN contingent. For the past week, they’ve set up roadblocks and focused on curfew violators. This has been more of a law enforcement function. They are now searching house-to-house, but the extensive network established by the Mechanics allows the residents to stay one step ahead.”

  “And, I might add, our insurgent activities keep
them on their heels,” said Steven. “They are trained to be a peacekeeping, reactionary force. We’re giving them what they want.”

  “Tell us some of the tactics that have proven successful,” interjected Sarge. “We will try to share our experiences with others around the country via the Pigeon.”

  “The what?” asked Katie, who stood behind the love seat with her arms crossed.

  “Julia’s Digital Carrier Pigeon network,” replied Susan. “We found that to be a mouthful, so we settled on the Pigeon.”

  Katie shrugged, indifferent.

  Steven continued. “We are undertaking a plan in the city that frustrates the Citizen Corps while gaining favor with the locals. It seems to be working.”

  “Give us some examples,” said Julia.

  “We’ve conducted a variety of surprise attacks on individual groups of UN troops, installations and roadblocks. We plant IEDs in homes that are raided by the UN. The element of surprise is critical.”

  “Believe it or not, Steven and I have studied this in college,” said Katie dryly. “We learned from the Viet Cong.”

  “Nice.” Brad laughed.

  “Well, I mean we followed their blueprint for establishing political and military wings during the Vietnam War,” she added. “We can thwart the enemy and receive the loyalty of the residents at the same time.”

  Steven continued. “By dividing the city into manageable parts, we’ve been able to establish an organizational structure and defined lines of communications. Each neighborhood has its own administration, security, and recovery sections.”

  “Government was intended to be based upon a pyramid structure,” added Sarge. “Local governments are closest to their communities. They know their neighbors and what their needs are. As you go higher up the pyramid—county, state and then federal—the impact on our lives should diminish.”

  “The pyramid has been turned upside down in our country,” said Donald.