Foreign Enemies and Traitors

by Matthew Bracken

  Boone had marked their map with a route and the best places to cross the state line. When dogs growled or barked, they backtracked and circled around. Homes sometimes loomed up in front of them, and if no dogs barked, they skirted close by them and continued quickly on their way. Most houses were fenced in, often with primitive wooden palisades or plain barbed wire. They were becoming experts at climbing over or wriggling through every type of fence. Most of the houses they encountered appeared deserted, but their inhabitants might have been hiding inside, and certainly nobody was showing lights of any kind. As they walked further south, they came across fewer and fewer homes that had been recently torched by the Cossacks. Some homes had obviously been burned down long before, probably during the period of chaos after the earthquakes. Many other homes were windowless and gutted.

  They crossed several paved roads, but without being able to see road signs, they could only guess if they matched the ones on the map. They used Boone’s map until they concluded that they were completely disoriented, and then they just followed the compass, heading south.

  The baby had become a veteran traveler, nestled against Jenny’s chest between the parka and her pack’s straps. The pacifier was clipped to the collar of her “onesie” outfit, so it would not be lost. She’d had one bottle before leaving the camper shell, and there was one more staying warm against Jenny’s skin, above her belt. She travels like an Indian baby in a papoose, thought Jenny. She wants to live. She’s a determined survivor, like us.

  In this part of Tennessee, streams were even more common than roads, and just as random and confusing in their twists and turns. Zack walked along them until he could find a crossing, either over a log or on rocks. But try as they might, they were both soon soaked up to their knees and Jenny’s feet were almost numb. The air wasn’t as cold as on the previous nights, but this was a mixed blessing, because the ground was soft and frequently muddy. Bogs and marshy areas were as common as the streams. But if they could just get safely into Mississippi, all of their present soreness, fatigue and discomfort would matter for nothing.

  One creek was much wider than the others, and they walked along its bank for at least a mile before Zack found a homemade pedestrian bridge to cross it. A roughly nailed wooden ladder took them up between two thick trees that grew a few feet apart. The trees were the support columns for a wire cable suspension bridge. From the two long cables hung a shaky bridge deck of wooden planks laid lengthwise, wide enough for just one person at a time. Jenny was wearing gloves, and gripped the two rusty wires at shoulder height as the boards bounced and swayed beneath her feet. At its lowest point in the middle, it was just a few yards above the rushing water. She’d seen these do-it-yourself hillbilly bridges before in rural Tennessee. Farmers often constructed them so they could walk over creeks and streams on their property and avoid long trips around. This was a big one, easily over a hundred feet long.

  In their shroud of moonlit fog, just the bridge and the immediate area around them were visible. They could pass a Cossack patrol only a few dozen yards away and never see them. Or they could stumble right into an ambush. It didn’t bear fretting over. There was nothing you could do to change the reality. You could only be thankful for the fog and the moonlight and press on, grateful that Zack had proven to be a sure woodsman. Now he even had an AK-47, besides his bow. If he could kill a mounted Cossack soldier with just an arrow, what could he do with thirty bullets? And this rifle had a strap, so he wouldn’t lose it.

  They reached the twin trees on the other side of the cable-and-plank hillbilly bridge. Zack climbed down first. Jenny turned around on the platform between the supporting trees and descended the vertical ladder of rough boards. Zack reached up and steadied her, holding her pack and guiding her down, even placing her boots on the steps so that she would not fall. Once on solid footing, they set out again, following the compass needle southward.

  ***

  Jenny whispered, “What tracks are these?” They had been ascending another slippery bank when they encountered the railroad running along the top. The moon had set, and they were using Zack’s micro light to examine the steel rails. Their visible world had shrunk down to the red puddle cast by its single LED bulb, but the faintness of it also reduced the chances of their being seen by anyone else. With his light directed down toward their feet, Zack could see only Jenny’s vague outline. He was amazed by her fearlessness at walking through the darkness. This was a quality that he had found in few people, much less girls.

  “It’s probably the Norfolk Southern,” he replied. “They run from Memphis to Corinth. I know that much for sure. They were only a couple of miles north of my house, on the Tennessee side. I used to hop rides when they were still running trains on them.”

  “Then I walked on these tracks after the first earthquake, when I was leaving Germantown.”

  “Yeah, if this is the Norfolk Southern, then these are the same tracks. About ten miles from Corinth they turn southeast and cross into Mississippi.”

  “Does that mean we’re out of Tennessee?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  “What’s your compass say? Which way are they going?”

  They studied Zack’s compass, using his tiny red light. He said, “They’re running about northwest to southeast. So this should be it.”

  “Well then, I say we take it.”

  “It’s safer if we stay off the roads. Railroads too. They might set up an ambush.”

  “They who?” asked Jenny. “The Cossacks?”

  “Yeah, the Cossacks.”

  “The Cossacks have better things to do than wait in the dark for somebody to walk down these tracks. We haven’t heard any shooting for a few hours—they’re all drunk by now. Anyway, you said we might already be in Mississippi. Let’s take the tracks.”

  He considered, weighing the risks. Dawn was still a few hours away. Since the moonlight had disappeared, their forward progress had fallen drastically. Not only had they been forced to walk much more slowly to avoid tripping or falling, they had repeatedly run into frightening and frustrating dead ends of deep water or impenetrable thickets. Consequently, they had frequently been forced to backtrack, becoming more and more lost with each turn and loop. Only the compass kept them from complete disorientation, but retracing their steps sapped both their energy and their morale. Unless they followed a road or these railroad tracks, they’d continue to move at a snail’s pace, and dawn might find them still in Tennessee. Tactically, it was a risk, but so was being caught near the state line after daybreak. And for now the baby was quiet, sleeping snuggled against Jenny’s chest, inside her fleece vest.

  Zack gave in. “All right, let’s stay on the tracks. We’ll have to stay close together so we can both use the light. Be careful; you can break your ankle easy on these.”

  “I know. Remember, this is how I got away from Memphis.”

  26

  It was growing light when the tracks approached a paved road. The road was too small to merit crossing gates. They hid in a wrecked pickup truck fifty feet from the road while they rested and observed it for activity. The old Ford had been pushed or rolled down onto the side of the tracks and abandoned there. The windows were cracked and crazed, but were still intact. The truck was facing away from the crossing, so they had to turn sideways in the seat to look out the back toward the road.

  Zack had forced open the passenger door, on the side away from the tracks. This was a chance for them to shed their packs and enjoy the luxury of resting comfortably while they regrouped and considered their next moves. Trees and bushes closed in on both sides of the disused railroad, so they could see only down a narrow channel in both directions. They might have fallen asleep had the baby not been crying.

  Hope was fussing, and they had no warm milk to give her. Jenny changed her bed-sheet diaper, which was barely wet. They tried giving her milk powder mixed with drinking water, but the baby rejected the rubber nipple and continued to cry. The two teenag
ers had already shared their last MRE meal pack, eaten cold.

  The fog was gone, but it was still very raw and cold. Zack estimated that the street ran north to south. They sat in the truck, studying their paper map and comparing it to what they could see around them. They were using a Tennessee road map, which showed a strip of northern Mississippi and Alabama. Corinth was less than ten miles from the state line, so it was included on their map. He was fairly certain that they were out of Tennessee, but he wanted to watch for a while before deciding whether they should continue along the tracks or turn south on the road. It was pure guesswork trying to determine if the road ahead matched any roads on their map. Zack held the map between them and pointed to his best guess of their location.

  He said, “If it’s this one, it crosses the border and runs into this one. Then that one goes over to Highway 45, and 45 runs right into Corinth. If it’s this one. I’m really just guessing.”

  “So, we’re out of Tennessee?”

  “We are, if that road is this one on the map. But I want to be sure.”

  They heard an engine, and sank low in the truck’s cab. In a minute, they watched through the rear window as a tractor pulling an enormous flatbed wagon approached from the north. An old white man was driving the tractor, looking straight ahead. The wagon was jammed with people sitting on every square foot, clutching bags and boxes. None of the refugees paid any attention to the wrecked pickup, if they even noticed it.

  “Well,” Jenny said, “at least nobody was chasing them. They seemed all right. They didn’t seem afraid. So, should we take the road?”

  While they watched, other small groups of people appeared, also walking south. Then they found out that they weren’t the only ones hiking down the railroad tracks. They had been looking out the back window toward the road, and Zack was startled to see people in civilian clothes coming toward them down the tracks. It was too late to hide from them. The group consisted of two men, a woman and several children. They appeared too tired to care about a pair of youths resting in an abandoned pickup. This little group paused at the road crossing, looked all around them for a minute, and turned south, joining the other refugees.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter much,” Zack said, “but I still think we should stay on the tracks. They go straight through Corinth. Mostly, I just don’t want to go where the herd is going. Eventually a herd gets herded into something. If we get herded into a refugee camp, we won’t be able to find Boone’s contacts.”

  “Well, we need to get some formula for this baby. Real milk, at least. We can’t take forever getting wherever we’re getting.”

  “I know, I know. Corinth is only a few more miles down the tracks. Just another couple of hours, maybe.”

  “What’s Corinth like?” Jenny asked. “How big is it?”

  “Pretty big, at least for around here. Maybe about twenty thousand people. Not as big as Memphis, that’s for sure.”

  “Thank God for that—I’ll never live near a big city again, ever. Hey, what about your rifle? There’s too many people around now. You can’t just go walking down the tracks carrying that thing. Not in the daytime. If we’re stopped by the Mississippi Guard, they’ll take it for sure. They might even arrest you for it.”

  “Yeah. You’re right, I should hide it. I’ll want it for later, when I go back into Tennessee.”

  Jenny looked at him as if he had said something completely crazy. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because I’m not finished with the Cossacks, that’s why. And I’m not finished with the people who killed my father. I’ll cache my rifle here, and come back and get it later.”

  “Well, I’m going to hang on to my pistol. I’ll hide it in the diaper bag. I’m keeping the silencer too. I’m not going to let anybody take them from me. Anywhere I can’t take them, I just won’t go.”

  Zack said, “I’ll hide the rifle under this truck—it’s not going anywhere in a hurry. I can tie it to something up under the engine. I’d put it behind the seat, but somebody might look there. Nobody will ever look underneath this pile of junk. But I’ll keep my bow. Bows aren’t against the law in Mississippi. All right, let’s get ready. If she won’t drink the milk, you might as well wrap her up and zip her into your jacket. Just give me a few minutes to hide my rifle, and we’ll go.”

  Jenny tried switching the baby’s pacifier for the bottle. The baby continued crying, her eyes tightly closed, rejecting both the rubber nipple and the pacifier. Jenny said, “That’s it, I’m done with the tracks. We’re taking the road. I’m going where the people are going. We need to get her some warm milk.”

  ****

  Bullard asked his deputy director, “What have you got, Mitch? Anything new?” The director of rural pacification was seated behind his broad desk in his office on the third floor of Building 1405. The desk was set well away from its single large window, which looked out over acres of brown fields. Mitch Brookfield had returned to the office after making his morning rounds of operations, communications and the other divisions.

  “We actually have some good news for a change. We’ve gotten the Nigerians to back away from the Kazaks. You were right—all it took was a donation to Colonel Zamburu’s favorite charity.”

  Bullard leaned back in his springy executive chair, his fingers laced behind his head. “Nothing makes people see reason like a million dollars in a Samsonite. Even North American Dollars.” One of the perquisites of running a black operation was ready access to cash. Sometimes you could motivate the leaders of the foreign peacekeepers with threats, sometimes with promises of rewards. Sometimes the rewards had to be tangible. Sidney Krantz understood this, and he had agreed to Bullard’s demand for sufficient working capital when he had taken the job.

  It wasn’t difficult to convince Krantz to provide a cash fund for the rural pacification program. The government printing presses were already churning out the new money around the clock, so a few tens of millions of ameros for black projects was just a trickle diverted from a flood. The rural pacification money was laundered through FEMA channels. In the absence of electronic banking, thick packets of cash were routinely handed out to refugees to cover living expenses. These days, almost no means of injecting “financial stimulus” into the economy was being ruled out.

  And of course, as usual, accounting standards for black budgets were virtually nonexistent. As a result, a healthy percentage of the cash found its way into Bullard’s own pockets. It was only paper money, but it was a lot better than nothing. Anyway, this job was only a stepping stone. Bob Bullard had been informed by Sid Krantz that he was on the short list for running the new Department of Internal Security, when it was launched. He was just putting in his time in rural pacification. The real power would come at the DIS. Then he would be the one in charge of all of the black budgets. Then there would be no limit to his ability to divert funds.

  Brookfield explained, “Colonel Zamburu wanted gold, but he was willing to take North American Dollars. Once he saw the money, he discovered that he really doesn’t hate the Kazaks so much after all. Turns out he’s a devout Christian, just full of God’s forgiveness. He accepted Colonel Burgut’s explanation, and moved his troops back from that river.”

  “Well, that’s something anyway. Now, what about that missing NAL humvee?” Bullard actually cared nothing about the humvee—but he was very concerned about its passengers.

  “There’s been nothing since yesterday morning, when it passed the Lynnville FEMA camp.”

  “It just disappeared from the face of the earth?”

  “For now,” said the deputy director. “Hey, we’re on one of the biggest Army bases in the country. There must be a thousand of those things around here. Whoever took that humvee could just paint new numbers on it and park it anywhere. Or they could have rolled it into a river, or just stashed it in a garage somewhere. We have a Predator searching between here and Lynnville, but no unaccounted-for humvees have turned up. But look at bright side—at least no more
foreign peacekeepers have turned up dead.”

  “What about the missing Legion lieutenant?” asked Bullard.

  “No trace of him. Nothing. Not a peep.”

  “Shit. Well, let’s keep on it.”

  ****

  Zack and Jenny joined a growing stream of people on the road. Zack asked an old man if they were in Mississippi yet, and was told that they were. After two miles, their road joined another larger one. The number of refugees on this road was even greater, including some who were driving cars and riding horses. Almost all of them were white, reflecting the population of the Tennessee counties from which they had fled.

  The refugees soon arrived at their first military checkpoint. The soldiers were Americans, which was a great relief. Orange traffic cones and white sawhorses were set up across the road, and behind them was a green camouflage Army humvee. Soldiers directed the refugees onto a field along the road where tents were being erected. One of the troops heard Jenny’s crying baby and said, “Go ahead and get in the medical line. They should have baby formula if you need it.” A cluster of people crowded around a green water trailer, filling a variety of plastic bottles and jugs. Zack and Jenny walked past them, since they still had water in their own containers and were more anxious to provide for baby Hope.

  Folded tents were being unloaded from an Army truck. Three of the big tents were already up. Somewhere nearby a loud diesel generator was running. A green-painted school bus pulled onto the field, and a group of about twenty refugees boarded it under the guidance of other soldiers. Jenny watched them carefully, both the civilians and the soldiers. The refugees were not being yelled at or pushed around. The soldiers were not carrying rifles, although a few did have holstered pistols on their web belts. All of them were dressed in gray-green digital-pattern ACUs, like the ones Phil Carson and Doug Dolan had worn on their escape.