by JT Sawyer
Cautiously he eased his crusty boots along the wooden floorboards, creeping along like he was navigating a minefield. Eight feet from the back door, his heart raced at the thought of freedom.
“Nicholas—get out here, boy!”
Nick’s lips trembled as his chest tightened. His boots felt like they were encased in quicksand, and an acidic taste flooded his mouth.
“Nicholas—you have precisely sixty seconds.”
He felt like a braided steel cable was tethered around his waist, yanking him away from his hasty plan. He turned about face and somberly walked towards the family room, swinging open the steel front door, which had three cast-iron deadbolts and a crucifix rifle port in the center. Walking down the steps, he tucked in his shirt and then held his chin up, hoping his efforts to have good posture would reduce some of his morning beatings.
If Father sees I am trying to be like him, he will go easier on me today.
Despite starting most mornings in the same fashion, the sight ahead sent an icy chill down Nick’s spine. His father was in a boxer’s stance, his chest heaving from the intensity of his empty-hand strikes while a steady stream of sweat roiled down his cheeks.
His father, Vern, leaned in towards a large elm tree, stepping closer to the dangling carcass of a freshly killed deer. He dropped into a fighting stance again, sending a flurry of jabs and hooks into the ribcage, cracking what little unbroken bone was still left in the animal. He glanced back over his shoulder towards Nick while muttering in between strikes, watching to see that the boy was repeating his incantation: Jab—jab—cross—right hook—destroy the enemy.
Vern pulled back, the carcass swinging wildly from his violent blows. “We must forge our will through adversity and through the development of our warrior skills if we are to survive in this immoral world.” Another barrage of strikes sent a rivulet of blood up through the deer’s nostrils. Vern placed his sopping red hand upon Nick’s shoulder then dragged the blood-streaked fingers across the boy’s face. Nick could smell a coppery odor mingled with a barnyard smell as he stared at the pulpy sack of flesh and bone.
“Remember, no man will save you except yourself.” His father grabbed Nick’s chin and held it firmly while removing a large fixed blade from his belt sheath. The muscles in his right bicep wrinkled a faded blue tattoo of an anchor. “Look to no one to save your ass—not God, not this puppet government of ours, not even your own momma, whore that she is.” He thrust the handle of the blade into the thirteen-year-old’s right hand. “Only you can protect you in this world.”
He nodded for Nick to move forward. “I left you a few ribs intact so you can practice those thrusting moves into the organs that I showed you the other night when me and the fellas were doing the knife-fightin’ drills.” His father wiped his soiled hands across his bare chest then nodded towards the deer.
“Go on now, get to it. I’ll make a man out of you yet, despite your medical issues. And after you’ve finished an hour of slashing and thrusting moves, we’ll get started on field-stripping those rifles I acquired.” His father dug the toe of his black boot into the soil as he mumbled, “You mark my words, boy…one day, in your lifetime, this whole goddamned world is going to turn to shit—the economy collapsing, or a Chink nuclear weapon goin’ off, or some super-virus. Then it will only be the men fit and skilled enough to prevail who will win back our freedom—the freedom our corrupt leaders claim to protect.” He turned to his right side and spit onto a gray slab of stone. “Hell, I’ve heard of entire nations crumbling after our military removed the dictator in charge—who we previously put in charge to fulfill our agenda. The hungry mobs swarm like fire ants over each other, forgetting all their religious vows and self-righteous moral codes just to get a fuckin’ meal. That’s what this country—the world itself—is in store for when it all goes to hell one day.”
He flicked his fingers in the air, motioning towards the knife in his son’s hands. “Go on now.”
Nick could feel his father mentally shoving him forward, the man’s considerable energy fueled by an inner rage that Nick dared not awaken. Nick stood before the lifeless animal as every fly in the region swarmed around the oozing nostrils. He saw the glassy eyes and wondered if this was the same deer he’d seen grazing out in the grassy meadow near the river last week. How peaceful it had seemed as it foraged along with the rest of the herd. Nick felt his stomach coil in knots as he loosely palmed the knife.
Maybe Father will feel too hot or too tired and make this a short lesson.
“Get to it, I said.” He shook his head, letting out a grimace. “You gotta learn to show no mercy when you’re fightin’ someone, for they will show you none.” Vern clenched his fist, taking a step forward towards the boy. Nick clutched the knife and grit his teeth, raising his knife hand and sending a jerky thrust into the ribcage.
Then he thrust it again.
And again.
And again.
“Slash, thrust, drop to one knee and slice, then dart back up towards the neck.” His father barked out the commands, pausing only to take a sip of bourbon from a silver whisky flask in his back pocket.
He kept thrusting until his arm grew heavy, then he felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. He didn’t need to look to know that his father had struck him with his folded belt. “Keep going—I see you got the right technique, but I sure as hell don’t see any fire in your eyes.” Nick felt the sting of leather again as he delivered a flurry of thrusts into the fileted meat around the lower ribcage. It sounded like he was slapping a paddle against the water.
“Again, goddammit—like you mean it, you sack of shit.” The belt hit its mark as a torrent of terror and adrenaline raced through Nick’s body. His hand sent thrust after thrust into the carcass until he collapsed on his knees, dropping the blade onto the wine-colored soil. He waited for the beating to continue while he sucked in breath after breath.
“If I had to rate your performance, I’d give that a fucking two, and that’s only because I’ve never seen a one before—but I know your condition prevents you from being the man you ought to be at times.” Vern lunged forward and retrieved the blade then handed it back to his son. “Now get outta here and clean up—and don’t forget to take your medicine. That shit keeps costing me an arm and a fuckin’ leg.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “We got a lot to do here before everyone arrives tonight for our weekly training session, so don’t piss around.”
Nick stood up, his left arm feeling like he had been stung by an entire colony of yellow-jackets. He gasped in another breath as he staggered towards the garden hose on the side of the house. He felt the pleasing rush of cold water wash away the blood on his fingers. His mind was filled with thoughts of loathing and shame…and another feeling he couldn’t identify that often emerged after these grueling training bouts.
Tears streamed down his flushed cheeks, but he hastily wiped them away, turning to make sure his father hadn’t seen anything. He just wanted to see his mom again—to live with her. He struggled to recall her face from their last visit two years ago, after she ran off with the manager of the grocery store in town. Up until then, Vern was a commercial fisherman for a small company south of Charleston, which meant Nick only had to endure his presence a week out of each month. Nick hated being here in this isolated location, raised by a man he hardly knew and surrounded by his dad’s militia friends, who came over to train and vent their anger at the government or the latest news headlines.
He forced his teary eyes closed, conjuring up an image of what it would be like if his life had gone back to the way it was a few years ago. When Nick couldn’t stand the longing any further, his mind shifted to another reality—one where everything he knew was swept away; the human race violently shorn from what it had become and all that was no longer in his possession. He clutched the knife in his sheath, wanting to cleave the world in two. Then he caught the faint movement of a small lizard as it darted out from under the house. He could tell by its size that it was
a juvenile eastern fence lizard. Nick tore his blade free of its leather constraints and whipped it at the creature, pinning it by the ribs to the ground. That unusual feeling emerged in him again, this time causing his lips to form a smile as he moved closer to the wounded creature. He removed the tip of the blade while pinning the neck down, his eyes growing wider as the lizard struggled.
Do you want me to show you mercy? Only I can do that—you are all alone in this world now, and no one else is going to help you.
Chapter 5
General Dorr was sitting in his small berth on the lower level of the USS Coast Guard Cutter Endurance, which had become his new tactical operations center following the exodus from MacDill. He was awaiting a conference call on his laptop from President Karen Hemmings and two of his senior commanding officers.
Though they had been successful at repelling the invading horde of paras at MacDill, the mass retreat of military personnel to the scattered armada of vessels in the Gulf of Mexico and along the Atlantic Ocean had been a blow to morale, and he had been doing his best to maintain an air of confidence that things would turn around—for the military and the human race. He had to keep reassuring himself that Doctor Munroe’s development of the bioagent and a vaccine for blood-borne infections from drones had been a tremendous victory, but looking around at his cramped quarters, he wondered how much longer they could keep retreating from the enemy before they ran out of space.
His laptop screen flashed to an image of President Hemmings sitting at her desk on board the Coast Guard Cutter Reliance, which was situated only a few miles from Dorr’s location in the Gulf. Behind her was a U.S. flag standing upright next to a framed copy of the Declaration of Independence. She seemed more rested than usual, and Dorr wondered cynically if she had imbibed the same liquid sleep-aid of Scotch that he had last night.
He sat upright and interlaced his fingers like he normally did before a briefing.
“Madam President—good afternoon.”
“Likewise, General,” said Hemmings in her slight southern drawl.
“Admiral Halsey, who is expediting repairs on the USS Reagan at Pearl Harbor, along with General Vaccaro, who is in the Atlantic, will be joining us shortly. But first, I wanted to update you on the recovery efforts at MacDill.”
She leaned back, nodding for him to continue.
“At present, I have assigned rotating teams there to assist with operations at the quarantine facility and medical clinic for survivors arriving from other regions or picked up by our recon teams. Doctor Munroe has one of her top assistants, Professor Maggie Peterson, working there two days a week, performing routine screenings for incoming arrivals and overseeing anyone who may have been infected by a drone bite. So far the recovery rate has been eighty-three percent if the victim receives the virus antidote developed by Munroe within four hours of exposure.”
“I had hoped that the rate would be higher.” She shook her head. “I guess that’s better than the alternative.”
“The quarantine facility is one of five active buildings on the base and, like our others, is staffed by a mix of civilian and military personnel. The other facilities are the fuel station, armory, med clinic, and flight hangars. The latter facility enables our mechanics to service and refuel our present load of thirteen helicopters, six C-130 transport planes, and two UAV Predator drones.”
“Two UAVs—that’s it? I thought there were more?”
“Until a few days ago, we only had one, but agents Runa and Pacelle were able to remotely access the formerly classified CIA drone hangar at an isolated location in Kentucky and route one of the birds to MacDill. Regrettably, the others are spread around the country or abroad. Since we only have a few former drone operators amongst our cadre, we are limited on how many UAVs we can have in the air at any given time. The UAVs will be absolutely instrumental in aiding our eleven strike teams on the ground, but their use will be restricted to clusters of alphas or in providing air support, via Hellfire missiles, to teams that are in imminent danger from a large-scale drone attack. “
She brushed a lock of her brunette hair off her forehead. “And what is the time estimate on returning all of our staff to MacDill?”
Dorr canted his head up as if searching for the answer amidst the ceiling panels. “Probably no sooner than the end of summer.”
Hemmings let out a deep exhale. “Eight months from now—I was expecting it to be sooner.”
“Ma’am, the problem isn’t the damage to infrastructure or the ability to sustain personnel there—we’ve still got the same amount of food, water, and medical supplies there as before. The issue is that the streets outside the base to the immediate south are jammed with the rotting corpses of a few hundred thousand drones, coupled with every rodent, vulture, and insect in Florida descending on the region. Doctor Munroe said the disease vectors for things like bubonic plague from fleas and secondary infections from insect bites are too much of a risk to have more than a skeleton crew living there. That’s why I’ve ordered rotating shifts of four work days at a time before people are flown out.”
“Which means more fuel for the helos, of course, in addition to what we are already looking at for our strike teams and resupply units.”
“That’s correct.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers, seeing the light on his laptop screen flashing, which indicated the other two senior officers were ready to join in on the meeting. “Exactly, which is why I suggested we meet with Vaccaro and Halsey to discuss reconfiguring our fleet of ships here to accommodate the challenge of locating fuel and streamlining our armada even further than what we’ve already been doing.”
“Very good. Those matters are in your area of expertise, so I will rely on your counsel.” She leaned forward, pressing a button on her computer that activated the video screens of General Vaccaro and Admiral Halsey.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen—although it’s more like morning for you, Admiral Halsey. How are things coming along in Hawaii with repairs to the Reagan?”
“Madam President, my crew has been putting in sixteen-hour days repairing the hull and the bridge of the Reagan from the damage it suffered from the sub attack during the first week of the pandemic. We are looking at close to two more months of round-the-clock repairs before she’s fully operational.” Halsey adjusted the collar on his white Navy uniform while clearing his throat. Dorr knew Halsey was holding back on his anger at the loss of life and the considerable damaged incurred from the surprise attack west of Pearl Harbor after the deadly assault by the Chinese Navy. He also knew from private conversations that Halsey personally held Runa, Reisner, and anyone else associated with the CIA responsible for the act of retaliation taken by the Chinese military, since Reisner had disclosed the agency director’s involvement in creating the deadly virus that he unleashed upon mainland China.
“Your efforts under such conditions are commendable, Admiral, and I know we are all eager to have you and your crew back in the fight,” said Hemmings.
Dorr leaned in on one elbow. “Admiral Halsey and General Vaccaro—I’ve asked you to join us today so we can discuss further recalibrating our mission capabilities by shifting our operational forces to the largely untouched array of Coast Guard vessels throughout the Gulf and Atlantic regions. Up until now, we have been relying on helos staging from bases on land around the U.S., especially here in the southeastern states. That has only resulted in constant attacks on our sites and expenditure of precious resources, not to mention risk to our personnel in fortifying those bases. Until Doctor Munroe and her staff have increased the quantity of the bioagent tenfold, we are looking at losing ground continually to swarm attacks by the drones.”
“How long will it be before she has produced what’s needed for, say, an extinction-level event of the drones?” said Vaccaro.
Dorr shifted in his seat while forming a fist. “With the limited technological capabilities aboard the Lachesis, the staff there can only produce enough of the bioagent for small batche
s to cope with regional crises. Doctor Munroe indicated yesterday that if she had access to a medical lab in a hospital-type facility, along with an increase in her staff, they could create enough of the biological agent to destroy the drones in this country within four months.”
The three faces on the screen all seemed to grow smaller as their bodies slid back in their seats or slumped to one side.
“That long,” muttered Halsey.
“And that’s just for production; we’d still have to sweep across the nation, dispensing the aerosol from planes or with ground teams to all of the hidden pockets of creatures,” said Vaccaro, who was rubbing the back of his neck.
“And then there’s still the matter of the alphas,” said Hemmings. “God in heaven—why couldn’t they also be destroyed by the bioagent like the drones?”
Dorr sat upright in his chair, feeling the need to get things back on track but also wanting to prevent his own downward slide into depression over the matters at hand.
“This is not going to be a short battle—we all knew that. Doctor Munroe’s breakthrough was a miracle, but it gave a false hope that this conflict would be over soon. Hope itself is not always a bad thing—especially for the survivors hiding in their homes, and even the soldiers on the ground when the chips are down—but it’s not a luxury that any of us in command positions can enjoy. We need a plan, followed by decisive, immediate action, which is why I wanted all of us to meet like this. Our focus right now should be on reconfiguring our attack and response capabilities using the existing fleet of Coast Guard vessels. We also need to find a suitable location, perhaps an island somewhere in the Caribbean, that will be more defensible than the mainland, where Munroe and her staff can amp up their production efforts.”
