by Michael Bray
Draven risked a glance at Kate, but she didn’t return it; instead she was tense, watching the man carefully, her eyes sharp and aware.
"Look," Draven said, turning back to the man. "With everything that’s happening it's understandable that you're tense and looking out for your family. I understand that. I have a family of my own that I’m trying to make sure are safe. If you'll just lower your weapon, we'll be on our way and nobody has to get hurt, okay?
"Don't patronise me. You think I’m an idiot? That guy thought I was an idiot too until I shot him, and now I have his damn brains all over me. Worse is that I damaged the car. Maybe a bullet went into the engine or something, I don’t know. Either way, we had to come out here on foot. We’re not hurting anyone, we just want to wait this thing out.”
“I know, I get it.”
“All you need to know is I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family. Keep that in mind."
Draven licked his lips, choosing each word with care. "Look, Alan, I understand what you’re going through. You’re scared, I’m scared too, but you can’t stay here. It's not safe."
"Nowhere is," he said, sighing the words. "Have you seen what's happening out there? You can’t stay in the cities, people are on the rampage. It doesn’t take much for the looters to come out and riots to start. Forget the authorities too. Police are no good, they’re overrun trying to keep everyone in order. No, we can’t rely on anyone else to help us. We'll be fine here by ourselves."
“I get that, but you haven’t thought this through.”
“What do you know about it?”
"How will you survive? How will you eat? Please, I know about this stuff, about living off the land. I'm trying to help you." Draven said, taking a cautious step closer.
"Back, get the fuck back or I swear to god I'll put a bullet in you."
The split second of distraction was all Kate needed. She drew her weapon, adjusting her stance and aiming it at Alan's face with the poise and confidence afforded by her training. "Put the gun down now sir," she said, her voice flat and robotic.
"Back off! I warned you!" Alan replied as his family shrank against him.
"Kate, I’m handling this," Draven said through gritted teeth, thinking it would be a miracle if any of them came out of the situation alive.
"We don’t have time for this bullshit," she snapped.
"Please, just put the gun down. Let me handle this."
"You better listen to him, listen to what he's sayin'," Alan said, clearly rattled and afraid.
"Sir," Kate said, ignoring both Draven and Alan's pleas. "You are interfering in a government operation which is vital to the security of this country. If you don’t lower your weapon, I'll be forced to open fire. I have authority to take your life if you further impede our progress."
"Kate, this is insane!" Draven said, sensing the standoff was about to get out of control.
"You can shoot me if you have to. I'll do whatever it takes to protect my family." Alan wailed, eyes flicking towards Draven then back to Kate.
"Sir, the best thing you can do for your family is to lower the weapon. I won’t ask you again."
"You're bluffing,"
"I don’t bluff, sir. If you want proof of that, just keep pointing that gun at me."
"Alan, please put the gun down and we can take you with us. We're heading for the Pentagon. They can protect you there, you and your family." Draven said.
"Why should I believe you?" Alan replied, the hesitation in his voice telling Draven he'd struck a chord.
"It's the government. They have a duty to protect its citizens. You'll be safer if you come with us."
“As if we could just walk in there. You think nobody else has thought of going there for help?”
“We have clearance, the highest level. We can get you in.” Draven said, taking a step closer to Alan.
“You better not be lying,” Alan said, lowering the gun. “I’m a good man, this isn’t what I wanted my kids to see.”
“I know, I understand. Just come along with us. You don’t have to be scared anymore.”
"You promise you'll take us?" he said, letting the gun fall to his side.
"Absolutely."
"Alright," he said, letting the gun fall to his side and raising his other arm in surrender.
"Kate?" Draven said quietly. "He's done as you asked. Put the gun away."
"Get the rifle from him. I don’t want him pointing it at us as soon as I put my gun down," she said, still flat, still robotic.
Draven walked towards Alan appreciating how tall he was up close, and how afraid he and his family were. "It's okay," he said as he took the rifle, giving his family a reassuring half-smile. “Just relax.”
He returned to Kate’s side, surprised to see she was still aiming her weapon at the family. "Okay, it's done. Now put the gun away and let's go."
"Wait, we need to pack up our stuff," Alan said.
"No. We can't take you."
All eyes went to Kate, who was staring straight at Alan, a defiance Draven hadn’t noticed before in her eyes.
“You promised you’d help us," Alan said to Draven.
"Why can’t we take them with us? They need our help." Draven said.
"We're on a mission. We don’t have time to babysit civilians."
"You can’t just leave them out here. They're vulnerable," Draven hissed.
"The entire world is vulnerable. Think of the bigger picture here."
"We have a duty to help." Draven snapped.
"No, we have a duty to figure out how to fix this problem," she said, striding forward. "Come on, we don’t have much time."
“I promised them help.”
She looked at him then, eyes intense and full of fire. “It wasn’t up to you to promise anything.”
Draven looked at Alan, the hate and betrayal in the strangers face impossible to ignore. He lowered his head. Kate glanced at Herman, seeing he too was disgusted. He spat in the dirt and watched her turn towards the trees. “Come on, we’re wasting time,” she said as she walked away. With no other option, Herman and Draven followed Kate into the woods. Draven took a last look over his shoulder at them, wishing he could explain or tell them something and seeing only hatred. For the first time, as they walked into the woods and left Alan and his family behind, Draven wondered if Joshua’s idea of eradicating the human species might not be such a bad one after all.
CHAPTER SIX
CHURCH OF HOLY RIGHTEOUSNESS
DALLAS, TEXAS
An overcast day greeted Fisher as he stared out over his three-acre farm. He exhaled, and adjusted his tie, reminding himself that the chaos of the world was no reason to have a tardy appearance. He had seen people who had used the apocalypse as an excuse to stop caring about themselves, but not Fisher. Appearance was everything, even more now that people would be looking to him as a leader. He picked up his bible and clutched it to his chest. He believed in the good word of God. Trusted it, just the way his father had.
His father had been a good man, fierce and determined, a real pillar of the community. Miles could remember him well, a big man with a booming voice and thick black beard. He ruled by fear, and although the public image he gave off was one of a gentle, caring man, behind closed doors, he ruled with cast iron discipline, ensuring that both he had Earl learned that to go against his wishes was to mean not being able to sit for a week. He closed his eyes as those childhood memories came back, his father removing his belt as the boys waited for their punishment, often quoting from Ezekiel as the boys trembled and waited for the beating to come.
‘The soul who sins shall die. The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, nor the father suffer for the iniquity of the son. The righteousness of the righteous shall be upon himself, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon himself.’
It didn’t matter which of them had been guilty of what they were being punished for. Their father had decreed that they were responsible for keeping each other
on the right path, and so if one did wrong, both would be punished. It was intended as a way of bringing them closer together, but Earl was rebellious as a child, hitting back at the strict regime of their household and doing all he could to get into trouble. Fisher grew to hate him for it. He recalled how many beatings he took, how many hits with his father’s belt he received because of his brother. Even now, almost forty years later, it still hurt. He closed his eyes and tried to shoo away the hatred. He knew it wasn’t his brother’s fault. He was a child, and would one day be judged by the almighty for his actions. Even so, the fact that Fisher had been so desperate to please his father, to keep him happy and show that he wanted to follow in his footsteps became difficult in the face of the constant punishments. It was only later when their father was an old man, his lungs ravaged by years of smoking, a broken shell in a hospital bed, did Miles get his reward. He recalled the way his father had taken his hand, the once shovel like appendages now so much skin and bone, so frail, so wasted away. He had looked Miles in the eye, a broken old man close to meeting his maker at last.
‘Miles, I want you to take over the church. Look after your brother. He’s a good boy but impulsive. Steer him onto the right track. Make sure you continue to preach the good word of God even if those around you try to sway you.’
He recalled looking at the old man, trying to figure out if it was love, pity, or morbid curiosity he felt towards him. He still wasn’t sure now, and could only assume it was a combination of all three. Either way, the old man had died soon after, and Miles had set about doing as he had been asked. Taking the church, further spreading the good word of the lord. He wondered if the old man would have been proud of what it had become. The small family run church had become a business juggernaut, a financial goldmine. Worship, it seemed, was incredibly lucrative.
He contemplated the changes the world was going through, how it was now time for him to step up and take charge. This, he realised, was what he had been preparing for his entire life. The apocalypse, the end of days. The event which would shatter society and remind mankind that they were at the mercy of a god who they hadn’t believed in or thought to ask mercy of before. Those people would be frightened, and desperate, and would want a conduit. Someone in the middle who they could speak to in the hope that those prayers might be heard. They needed him.
He opened the bible in his hands, looking at the photograph of his late wife. He touched the image, recalling how she was so cruelly taken at such a young age. A brain aneurysm at just thirty. She had gone to bed complaining of a headache and had never woken up. He was devastated, and for the first time had questioned his faith. Later, he would realise it was just the grief which had caused him to have doubts. Taking her had been a part of God’s plan, and whatever he had intended for her in the next life was more important that whatever her time on earth would have been spent doing. He understood that now. Death was as much a part of life as living itself was. That lesson was one which he would need to remember in the coming weeks. Sometimes horrible, appalling things had to be done for the greater good. He had to remind himself that he was a servant of God and the things he would be forced to do was no reflection on him as a person, but on the circumstances that had been forced on them.
He kissed his fingers and touched them to the photograph of his wife, then closed the bible and placed it in his bedside drawer. He felt the familiar light butterfly sensation in his stomach which was always there right before he delivered one of his sermons. There were people waiting for him and the message he was to relay, and today, it was an important one. Perhaps the most important he would ever deliver. He cleared his throat, made one last check on his appearance in the mirror then headed downstairs, ready to spread the good word once more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Branning & Hamada
Unknown Location
Afghanistan
Branning has no idea where he was. His head was hooded, arms tied behind his back and to the chair in which he was now sitting. Aside from the musty smell of the bag which prevented him from observing his surroundings, it was complete sensory deprivation. Anger nibbled away at him at his stupidity for letting Hamada fool him, and he had to force himself to quell it, relying on his training to keep his head, to think clearly and retain his focus. He was sure he was about to be tortured for information then would be murdered, tossed in a ditch somewhere and left to rot. He knew what was expected of him. No matter what they did, no matter what they asked, he would respond in the same way. Name. Number.
Branning. Three-seven-five-nine-two.
He only hoped he was strong enough to hold out. Training to resist interrogation was one thing, actually doing it would be different altogether.
"Take off his hood."
Branning recognised that voice, and the anger which had earlier nibbled at him now took huge gaping bites.
It was Hamada.
White light filled his vision as the hood was removed. He screwed his eyes up against it, then squinted at his surroundings, remembering his training and trying to take it in to secure any advantage to help him to escape. He was in a stone-walled room with a chipped wood table between him and Hamada who sat opposite, the window at his back stuffed with golden sunlight, casting the Afghan native and the two armed men flanking him into partial silhouette.
"How are you feeling?" Hamada asked.
"Branning. Three-seven-five-nine-two."
Hamada smiled and placed his palms on the table. "As always, you misunderstand me."
He barked something in his native tongue and the two men approached the table.
Here it comes, Branning thought as he squirmed against his restraints. This is where it starts.
They were upon him now, and he hoped it would be a quick death which greeted him. To Branning's surprise, the men didn’t kill him. Instead, they cut away the restraints tying him to the chair. Branning rubbed his wrists and stared at Hamada as the two men returned to their previous positions.
"What's going on?" Branning said.
"A misunderstanding, I’m afraid. My men had been tracking us for more than a day and believed I was your captive."
"They could have just asked."
"Either way, it would have been necessary to stop you from knowing the location of our headquarters. As you and I know, this is a fragile trust. It was too good an advantage not to take."
"So where the hell are we?"
"A village not far from where we were camping. The name and specific location do not matter."
"Alright," Branning said, still not entirely comfortable. "I suppose the next question is will they help us?"
"There has been some discussion about that," Hamada said. "Some are sympathetic to the current plight. The others see you as a threat which should be eliminated. However, I have convinced them you can be trusted, Branning, so they have agreed to join our cause."
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth. How you choose to deal with that is your decision.”
“How can I be sure I can trust you?”
“Is the fact that you are still breathing not enough, Branning? If I wanted you dead then this conversation would not be happening.”
“Where I come from, this isn’t how we treat our allies.”
“I think we can both agree that this is a unique situation, Branning.”
"Alright, then I suppose I have to thank you or something, is that it?” Branning muttered, awkward at feeling gratitude for a perceived enemy.
"Don’t thank me yet, there is more you need to be made aware of."
"Go on."
"Although we have many good men here willing to fight and die for the cause, some of our bravest and best are not here in the village.”
“Where are they?”
“They were captured during operations before this situation arose. Your military has them detained in a camp close to the outskirts of Baghdad."
"Prisoners of war?"
"Yes. It
seems they were sent there for interrogation to find out what they know."
“What does this have to do with us?”
Hamada leaned close, placing his palms on the table top. "We will need them for the upcoming war. These are brave men, fierce warriors who can help us in our cause. This is why you were allowed to survive, Branning. This is what my men need to prove you can be trusted."
Branning shook his head. "I won’t have authority or clearance to free your men. You have to understand, I’m just a grunt. I have no sway."
"I understand that. Even if you did, it wouldn’t matter."
"What do you mean?"
"It seems this camp I speak of has been taken over by our mutual enemy. Not only are my people prisoner, but yours too. As you see, it would be mutually beneficial for us to free our people in order that they can join our cause. Both of us would benefit and it would further strengthen our mutual relationship."
Branning considered it. He knew to go ahead would be crazy. It was borderline treason. He could be court marshalled, sent to prison for the rest of his life or branded a terrorist sympathiser, disgraced by the country he loved. Then he reminded himself that the world was likely too busy to worry about such things.
“Well?” Hamada said.
"It won’t be easy," Branning said with a shake of his head. "Those camps are well fortified to deter attack. There is every chance those in charge will be well integrated now. They will have supplies, weapons, strategic advantage. It would be a suicide mission if these super soldiers are running the show. Having said that, I agree that we could use the manpower. Do you have any information on specifics? Like where this camp is?"
Hamada barked something in his own language at one of the men by the window who responded by leaving the room.
“In my absence, my men have been observing this camp. Gathering information. In the interest of full disclosure, Branning, they were in the process of planning an assault. This will happen with or without you.”
