But something didn’t feel right. People who drove those huge pickups tended to be hot shots, not drivers content to travel at the limit set for truckers like him. Why was it pacing him like that? It’d been that way for maybe ten miles since he’d first noticed it. Jack pressed the accelerator, edging up his speed.
And the pickup stayed right with him in the same relative position, like its image was painted on his side mirror. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple. Jack glanced toward the glove box. He reached over, opened it, and put the gun on the seat beside him. He’d hoped never to have to actually use it, but it couldn’t hurt to have it easier to reach if he needed it.
Keeping one eye on the road in front of him, he again stole a glance at the side mirror. The pickup suddenly flashed its lights and pulled up alongside him. Before he grasped what was going on, it swerved and clipped his driver front fender, causing him to stray onto the shoulder.
“Fucking asshole!” He jerked the wheel to get back on the road. The rig lurched from his overcorrection, and flung the gun and Doritos onto the passenger-side floor before settling back into the truck lane.
“Oh my God.” Jack took several deep breaths to steady himself. He’d had a few emergencies in his life on the road, but nothing like this. He glanced again in the side mirror. The pickup was parallel with him, but had moved over a lane. He took another deep breath and let out a sigh. Maybe the driver was drunk, and had lost control for a moment. At least the thing was farther away from him now.
Bang!
The wheel jerked. Jack clamped his hands on it as hard as he could. Sounded like a gunshot, but it felt like his driver’s front had blown out. The rig wobbled and swerved as Jack fought the wheel to regain control, but it was too late. The cab made a sharp left turn and the trailer tried to turn right. He closed his eyes and clung to the wheel as the truck jackknifed and rolled onto its side in the ditch.
Jack hung sideways in his seat belt and shoulder harness. All motion had abruptly ceased. One minute, he’d been rumbling down the road doing maybe sixty-five, and now his rig lay on its side, silent except for the radio that played on as if nothing had happened. He slowly opened his eyes.
Glass fragments from the ruptured windshield covered him and the inside of the cab, but he seemed to have gotten away with only minor scratches. The seat belt had kept him from smashing his head on anything. He carefully undid the buckle and released himself to stand with his feet on the ground beneath what had been the passenger door window. He heard voices outside. Someone must have stopped to help already.
“Hey, I’m in here!”
He elbowed the remaining safety glass away from the windshield’s frame, crawled out of the cab, and then sank down onto the dirt next to his ruined rig. He felt light-headed from the shock of the crash.
“Shoot it! Get in there and start unloading!”
A series of gunshots rang out, followed by more shouting and the sounds of a commotion from the other side of the trailer, just outside his view. Jack struggled to his feet and staggered in the direction of the sounds. He reached the end of the trailer, gripped the edge in both hands, and peered around it.
Several men stood at the now-open back door of the trailer, hauling out boxes of catfish from the refrigerated interior and loading them into the pickup. As he watched, several other cars pulled over, their drivers and occupants spilling out to get their portion of the loot.
He staggered forward. “Hey! Put that stuff down!”
The closest of the men turned toward him, and in one fluid motion, pulled a gun from his waistband, raised it and fired.
Jack opened his mouth to scream, but never had the chance as the bullet blew his skull apart.
CHAPTER 51
Gretchen wept quietly as she gazed down at Lara’s sleeping face. Her once-beautiful blonde hair had become as dry and brittle as the fake hair on a cheap doll. It fell out so easily, she’d had to stop brushing it. Lara’s pale scalp showed through the ratty tangles that remained. Even her fingernails had become ragged and fragile. She looked unkempt, uncared for, and Gretchen was powerless to help her.
Lara looked like she was fading away by degrees, and Gretchen wondered how much more her little body could withstand. In the weeks since the food bans went into effect, the consequences of poor nutrition had ravaged her little girl—as well as her own pregnant body. She turned away from the heartbreaking sight and gently closed the door to Lara’s room.
Another vicious headache clawed at her temples and made her queasy. She walked out to the living room window, opened it, and gazed down at the courtyard. The coming change of seasons announced itself by tinting the trees below with shades of gold and crimson. She inhaled deeply, relishing the fresh, crisp fall air. She wished fall could go on forever, but she knew snow wouldn’t be far behind in this part of the country.
Gretchen absently rubbed her belly and wondered how much longer Kyle would need to work here. She worried she’d need to see an OB/GYN soon for prenatal checkups, that she’d already put it off too long. Maybe she could go back to her previous doctor in Minneapolis for the time being. It was a bit of a drive, but it might work, at least for her second trimester.
She went through the living room and kitchen and threw open all the windows. Maybe the fresh air would help clear up her headache without having to take anything for it. She made a wry face. As if it mattered, with the potent antibiotics she was on. The baby might already be damaged, so what harm could ibuprofen do? Still, just in case, she decided to try to forgo taking anything more.
Gretchen moaned softly as she lowered her weary body onto the couch. Maybe she could find some escapist daytime program to distract her from her worries for a while. She clicked on the television and was immediately faced with dramatic live-news helicopter footage from the scene of an armed robbery of a truck out in Kansas.
“Within the last hour, this truck had been headed northbound on I-35, transporting a load from a commercial fish farm down in Oklahoma. Witnesses say another vehicle tried to run it off the road. The driver apparently lost control and the truck jackknifed into the ditch. Someone shot the driver in the head and most of the cargo was stolen within minutes. Police are in a standoff situation trying to protect the crime scene and what little remains of the load. Details are still coming in. We’ll keep you updated as we know more.”
Gretchen stared at the television, openmouthed. About a half-dozen police officers stood there, guns drawn, guarding the overturned truck. A huge crowd surrounded them, right there at the side of the freeway, like they didn’t care if they died trying to get to the cargo.
Afraid to see what might happen next, Gretchen clicked off the television. She couldn’t believe people had become so desperate to pull off something like that. But then she thought of Lara, so innocent, sleeping in the other room, slowly dying of malnutrition. Maybe those people had starving children at home, too.
She put her face in her hands and wept.
CHAPTER 52
The early morning sun was tinting the world pink as Jim “the Fox” Sullivan tossed down several blocks of hay from the back of his flatbed truck. His cattle took notice and broke into a trot to get at their morning meal. He smiled as they tore into the hay. The Fox enjoyed getting up early to begin his farm chores. At dawn, the air was clean, the world was quiet, and the day was still a blank slate full of promise. He couldn’t understand why more people weren’t interested in a good, simple life like his.
Not everyone in his enclave was such a fan of early hours, though. Some would be out already, greeting the new day and tackling their chores. Some would get going a little later. But they all put in long days of honest work, producing good, safe food. He was proud of what he’d created out here.
The Fox had just gotten back into his truck to drive to the next pasture when something caught his eye. Something on the horizon of the hills that surrounded the enclave and gave it a private feel. What could it be at this hour?
He leaned f
orward and strained to see through the dusty windshield. Something was moving into view in the weak early light, coming into focus as it drew closer. His breath caught when he realized a convoy of dark-colored vehicles with tinted glass windows was headed toward the enclave. The look of them screamed government.
The convoy snaked down the dirt road that led right into the heart of the enclave. The vehicles in front looked armored, and appeared to be escorting larger, transporter-type vehicles. Dust kicked up around them, concealing some of the vehicles farther back. From the look of it, their intentions could only be hostile.
The Fox grabbed his cell, tapped out an urgent text, and sent it to the distribution list that included all the members of his enclave. In the message, he urged everyone to drop whatever they were doing, arm themselves, and gather at his place. And do it now.
He gunned his truck to get back to his house. First he had to make sure Molly was safe, then he had to arm himself and prepare to organize everyone when they arrived. Fortunately, his rifle had an extremely precise scope, giving him excellent accuracy, even at a distance. He’d need all the advantages he could get.
He pulled the truck up behind his house, hopped out, and dashed inside. Molly, her eyes wide and her face pale, stood frozen in the kitchen, cell phone in hand.
“What is it, Dad? What’s going on?”
“Big convoy coming in. Looks like government. Heavy vehicles. You stay in here. I don’t want you outside.”
“But what—”
“I mean it. You stay in here.”
The Fox left Molly standing in the kitchen. No time to lose trying to explain something he couldn’t yet explain. He had to act. He hurried to the gun cabinet in his den, grabbed the rifle, and loaded it. Then he shoved a box of ammo into his shirt pocket and darted out the back door, positioning himself at a corner of the house to conceal himself from the approaching vehicles.
He watched from his hiding place as the transportation units came to a halt a little ways off and the vehicles from the front came closer, fanned out, and stopped. Armored Humvees. Had to be government. But what the hell did they want?
About a dozen members of the enclave entered his near pasture on foot, likely those who’d received his text while they were already out doing their morning chores. Too late, he realized his order to have them all meet at his place had become a trap, now that the Humvees had arranged themselves as they had.
He waved at his friends to try to warn them off. But before they could react, the Humvees, which had been running with their lights off, turned their headlights on high. The blinding light concealed the vehicles behind its intense glare. The Fox could only see his people caught in the dazzling light as they raised their hands to their eyes and staggered around, stunned and exposed.
That’s when the shooting began. It all happened so swiftly, the Fox never even got off a shot. All he knew was that his friends were cut down in an instant, like rag dolls. He’d remained tucked right behind the corner of the house, safe from the line of fire. He heard a few moans, but they didn’t last long. Whatever they were using for ammo, there was no standing up to it.
A few more stragglers came running toward his house from the other direction. He tried to wave them off before they caught the attention of the shooters, but it was too late. They, too, were cut down midstride.
The Fox backed away, farther behind the house and out of the vehicles’ line of sight. The headlights cast a menacing glare on the bloody, shredded bodies of most of the enclave members. He hoped the younger kids had stayed behind, but he couldn’t be sure, and he couldn’t get a message out now. Those lying dead in the field would’ve had their cell phones with them, so he couldn’t reach the kids now anyway.
Adrenaline churned through him, pushing his heart so hard he gasped for air. Light-headed, he sank to the ground to gather his wits. He tried to slow his breathing, to think. What to do? The shooting had stopped, leaving a terrible silence in its wake, but he had no doubt if he showed himself, he’d die in a hail of bullets before he could draw a single breath.
He snuck inside the house through the back door, then crawled across the pinewood floor to a front-facing window in the living room. He carefully raised his head and peered out a corner of the window with one eye, hoping no one would notice the movement.
The vehicles remained in place, ominously still. Whatever they wanted, they didn’t yet have it. But if killing everyone in sight wasn’t the end goal, what was? What would they do next? If they thought they’d killed everyone, maybe he could at least hide out until they left. If they left.
He needed to check on Molly, but he didn’t want to risk someone outside hearing him call to her from the living room. He quickly duck-walked to the kitchen, then fell to his hands and knees. He choked back a sob as he crawled over to her.
She’d been blown in half. Everything above the waist simply no longer existed. Her mangled lower torso lay twisted and mired in blood, tissue, bone fragments, and broken glass. He glanced up at where the window and part of the wall above the kitchen sink had been blasted open. Numb and on autopilot, he crept back to the living room.
The Fox remained frozen in place for the better part of an hour, watching, waiting for something to happen. His back ached from sitting in a rigid position, straining to see and not be seen. He saw nothing move from his vantage point, but he did hear more sporadic gunfire from farther off. Then more silence.
Finally, the forward vehicles dimmed their headlights and opened their doors. Heavily armed men dressed in black got out of the Humvees. They all looked bulky—probably bulletproof clothing. They had helmets with glass shields over their faces. Probably bulletproof, too. Fucking government.
They advanced toward his farm, slowly, each of them moving his faceless helmeted head from side to side, scanning for anything left to shoot, most likely. They got right up to the fence, still with their sniper guns at the ready and looking from side to side. Then one of them raised his arm in an apparent signal. The transports began to roll. They approached his farm at a slow rate of speed. As they drew closer, he could see they, too, had tinted glass and armor plates.
He glanced at his rifle. As fine a weapon as it was, he might as well have brought a pop gun to a war. He sighed. Nothing to do but stay hidden and wait it out. He crept across the floor and went to the bathroom window that overlooked the pasture at the side of the house. He cringed when he saw the bodies of all his friends, strewn there like so much bloody debris. Like Molly.
Then one of the transport vehicles drove up and positioned itself next to his cattle chute. Two men got out. They were dressed in protective gear like the others, but did not carry guns. Instead, they each carried a small rectangular case. They slipped over his fence with practiced ease, set their cases down next to it, and began shouting and driving his cattle toward the chute.
After a few minutes of wrangling, they loaded one of his cows into the chute and blocked it in. Then one of the men went to his case, opened it, and took out what appeared to be some sort of medical supplies. He approached the trapped cow, his back to the Fox, and did something. Then he returned the items to the case and closed it. They repeated the entire process with a second cow before returning the cases to their truck.
The Fox tried to decide what to do—and realized his options were nil. They’d killed his daughter as well as likely everyone else in the enclave, and now they were doing something with his cattle as if they had all the right in the world. He didn’t have the firepower to stop them, but he couldn’t stand by any longer. He scuttled back into the living room, picked up his rifle, then took a deep breath to ready himself.
After a few moments, he rose to his feet, squared his shoulders, and strode to the front door. He waited a beat, then flung open the door, stepped outside and shouted, “Goddamn you fucking murderers, get the fuck off my property!” He aimed his rifle and pulled the trigger just before he felt an impact that punched him backward into the house with a deafening roar.
He lay on the floor, too stunned to feel pain, as darkness quickly and quietly took him away.
CHAPTER 53
Special Agent Ben Tucker leaned over and smiled. “You were wrong, Fox. We were listening all these years. We knew all about your operation out here, always have. But now the Homeland needs it more than you.” He stood, hands on hips, and gazed down at the Fox. Or what was left of him, anyway. The body still lay, bloody and twisted, inside the house where the force of the bullets had blown it.
So far, so good. Phase One had gone according to plan. By striking so early in the day, they’d caught the enclave members mostly off guard, which made elimination fairly quick and easy. His frontline teams had scoured each and every house and outbuilding for any stragglers, and had reported none remaining.
Elimination was complete, and his teams were busy loading up all the bodies for transportation to a covert DHS location for disposal. It would be as if they’d never existed. Other team members were collecting additional samples, to be absolutely sure both animal and soy stocks were completely free of the faulty valine.
Phase Two would take longer. They’d brought equipment and supplies to secure the entire area from any possible passersby, so that in Phase Three, the enclave could be converted into a DHS installation to continue the existing ag operations in place.
Ben returned to his Humvee to make his status call.
Ted Warner hung up the phone and smiled. His team had carried out his orders flawlessly. They’d secured all the livestock—every cow, pig, and chicken—as well as all the soybean seed stock and dried harvested beans at Sullivan’s compound.
Now they had a base livestock and soy inventory entirely free of the bad valine they’d use to speed up the eventual recovery of the food chain. It would probably be a year or so before their efforts bore sufficient fruit to be of value, but in the meantime, the necessary breeding and preservation operations would continue right in place at the compound under covert DHS control.
Broken Chain Page 14
