The World Bleeds: A Post-Apocalyptic Story (The World Burns Book 5)

by Boyd Craven III

Things had gone from bad to worse in moments for Michael, and he was having a hard time processing what was going on. His entire focus went to the shank and the man’s movements, but his mind was reliving the encounter in the woods, hearing that sickening crunch as he caved in a man’s skull… The cries he listened to at night as the kids worried about their father. The fact the guy was trying to rob him flew right over his already sore head as he focused on the weapon.

  “Kid, I’d give him your shoes if you don’t want any trouble,” A stranger said, coming up slightly behind the would be robber, “otherwise I think this rat fink is going to try something. We can always get them back for you later,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “Shut up,” the man with the shank snarled, “I don’t have any shoes, the kid looks like a good match for me.”

  “You aren’t taking my shoes,” Michael said, his brain locking back into the present.

  He rubbed the side of his head and moved his feet from side to side as the man with the shank moved his hand that held it in a circular fashion. He took a step closer to Michael, and when Michael was almost ready to dart to one side a dark blur made both of them flinch.

  The black man must have been close to three hundred pounds and a good six feet tall. He was built like a professional football player but moved as quick and agile as a fencer. He wasn’t starved or malnourished like many of the men in this room, and his raw power was enough that when his shoulder rammed the man with the shank, he flew off his feet, hitting a bunk with his upper back. The man’s hands went limp and the shank fell. He was grabbed by the belt and the scruff of his shirt and slammed into the wall next to the bed and allowed to fall down in a heap. The black man smiled at Michael and knelt down to get the shank, which he promptly put in his sock.

  “Thanks for the shank kid,” he said and walked out of the main room into an individual cell.

  Michael struggled to get his heart rate to come down from the ceiling and took a large gasping breath. The small semi-circle of men started to break up when the man who had called the other a rat fink came forward.

  “I’m Les, I don’t want you to think this kind of thing is normal here. I usually keep things quiet, but Jeff over there already had the shank out and none of us wanted to get poked.”

  “Les, hi. I’m uh… Michael. Thanks for uh… distracting him. Is he dead?” Michael asked, his attention divided between the two men, one standing and one not moving.

  “He might be. I’m glad the kids aren’t in this area, that would have been bad for them to see.”

  “Kids? I’ve got some kids that came in with me. where are they kept?” Michael asked.

  “You’re too young to have your own kids.”

  “I uh… They sort of grew on me. I’ve been taking care of them after their father died.”

  “Ahhh, gotcha,” Les smiled and tapped Michael on the shoulder.

  Michael struggled not to flinch, but it was difficult.

  “They’re keeping the kids in the old main office building. They have it much nicer than we do. You’ll see them outside sometimes. Hell, sometimes the guys and the kids all get to go out together. I think it depends on how many guards they have on duty and how bad the families are complaining.” Les told him.

  “What’s the story on the big guy?” Michael asked, knowing that all this information would be crucial somehow.

  “That’s King, he was in here before.”

  “Before?” Michael asked, confused.

  “This was a federal prison. He was in here before the balloon went up. He’s one bad dude. They say he’s in here for murder and he killed more while he was locked up here. If you want to survive, I’d stay away from his bad side.”

  The moaning on the floor distracted them both and the man got to his feet shakily, his eyes not even opening as he felt his body for injuries.

  “Jeff, you stupid son of a… You know what? Michael, meet Jeff, Jeff meet—“ Les had started to say, but he stopped when Michael sucker punched the man in the kidney.

  Jeff fell making a gagging, choking sound and Les looked between the young man and the one rolling around on the floor in agony. When he tried to lock eyes with Michael again to ask him a question, the young man was walking away.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Les called.

  “To make more friends,” Michael said with gritted teeth.

  He knew where he was going, and the big man’s smile was the brightest thing he could see in the barracks. King held out one huge hand when Michael got close and Michael took it. King shook hands with him, his large mitt totally engulfing Michaels.

  “You never let a snake like Jeff get away with something like that. Law of the jungle. You gotta put them down hard. Otherwise they won’t respect you. Respect and power is how you going to survive in here.” King told Michael after a moment.

  “He liked my shoes,” Michael replied.

  King threw his head back and laughed, “Yes son, that I think he did.”

  “Thank you, King,” Michael said, not knowing if he should use ‘Mister’ in front of King, or if that was his first name or last name…

  “No problem. He had something shiny I wanted,” he flashed Michael a smile, “besides, if you really want to thank me, get me some stuff at the cafeteria during breakfast and dinner this week and we’ll call it even.”

  “Sure, what do you want?” Michael asked, feeling relieved.

  “Juice, sugar packets… but you have to get the coffee otherwise they won’t give out sugar packets and tomatoes.”

  Michael burned that into memory and nodded.

  “When do we eat?” He asked.

  “That’s the fun part, you have to get a job and do your work or you won’t.” King’s smile was radiant.

  “Alrighty then, and after that I need to escape this joint,” Michael said softly, mostly to himself.

  “You and me both kid, you and me both.” Kings voice rang deep within Michael’s soul.

  Chapter 7 -

  Choccolocco Alabama

  “Henry, did you…?” John’s words trailed off as Henrikas came into sight.

  He had two backpacks and the M2 slung over his shoulder and tossed it all at John’s feet.

  “That is what I was able to save before they searched the area too much. They found your pistol in the car when they were searching.”

  “How did you find this? Why didn’t they take it?” John asked.

  “You were unconscious for a time. I slipped down when they weren’t looking and retrieved the rifle. I was able to get the backpacks after they left. They never even bothered looking in them.”

  “This is amazing, thank you,” John said taking the rifle and working the bolt before field stripping and inspecting it.

  “That is an old gun, is it any good?”

  “It served America through many wars.” John said with a grin.

  “I meant, does it still operate? I do not have any ammunition left for my weapon.

  John nodded as he slid everything back together. He dug through Michael’s pack and then the other, “You didn’t find any magazines for this, did you?” He asked, his heart sinking.

  “No, just the one inside the rifle. Its thirty rounds, yes?”

  “Yeah, I just hope it’s enough.”

  +++++

  “No one is here,” Henrikas said, walking through the ruins of John’s house.

  “Yeah. I’m worried about checking their house.”

  “We can only try my friend.” Henrikas told him.

  The two of them moved efficiently and quietly to Michael’s house. If anything, it looked like it had been gone through worse judging by the clothing scattered along the garage floor. John slowed down and looked through things, trying to make sense, trying to find a pattern. After a few minutes of poking through debris, he headed into the house and made sure they were alone before heading into Michael’s room. The tornado had struck in here as well and it was twice as bad as before. Only the area behind th
e door and the doors path was clear. That got John to thinking and he swung the door closed and smiled.

  “What is this?” Henrikas asked.

  “FCI Talladega,” John mused, pulling the note off the corkboard that was on the back of the door.

  John was certain that hadn’t been there before and he turned it over and saw half a note scrawled in the same red ink as the front.

  “John, getting clothes and heading to FEMA camp with Command…”

  He handed the note to Henrikas and smiled.

  “FCI Talladega?” Henrikas asked.

  “You don’t know what that is?”

  “No, should I?” Henrikas asked with a confused expression.

  “Where was the big camp you were telling me about?”

  “It was an old prison, I do not know where. I remember it was named after the forests around here.”

  “Federal Corrections Institute… The Talladega Federal Prison. Smart boy,” John said smiling.

  “You know where this is?”

  “I do, but I think we need to make a phone call first.”

  “Phone call? I told you, I have no radio equipment.” Henrikas said.

  “Don’t worry. In half a day, we can hike there unless we can find some bicycles. Come on.”

  +++++

  Homestead Kentucky

  “…So for a solar oven you make some sort of box with a glass or clear top. As long as you have a way to direct the sunlight towards your cooking surface you can be good. You can easily make one out of a box, tinfoil for reflectors, clear Saran Wrap and a dark colored pot. Most of you have some sort of solar oven already and don’t even know it, one you can use to dry out foods and make jerky.” Blake said, taking his hand off the transmitter so he could get a drink of water.

  “What’s that? Over.” A voice said into the headset.

  “Your car. Don’t you ever notice how hot it gets if you leave your car in the sun with all the windows up? Over.” Blake said, loving the feel of Sandra’s hand working on the knots in his shoulder.

  “Oooooooohhhhhhh That’s a great idea… er… over,” a tiny voice that definitely belonged to an adolescent said.

  “Hey, I don’t recognize your voice little man, what’s your name? Over?” Blake said getting into it.

  “Jeremiah sir, I just found out about this frequency this past week and have been listening in. It’s really helped. Uh… Over.”

  “Well, feel free to call me anytime. Your parents too. Over.”

  “My parents got taken by the soldiers, over.”

  Sandra stiffened, but started to work on the muscles above the gunshot that had healed nicely, but leaving the spot of the wound sore and the muscles taut.

  “Oh? Where are you at? Over.”

  “I’m in Arkansas, near Texarkana. Over.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that son,” a new voice broke in and both Blake and Sandra froze in shock. They hadn’t heard that voice since the day Kenny had taken Sandra at knifepoint. “Maybe we can work on getting this country back from the foreigners. Over.”

  Sandra grabbed the mic, “Is this John the squid, over?”

  A hearty chuckle answered her before he could speak, “I thought I remembered you. Yeah, John the squid. You were the hand to hand instructor at Brag if I remember correctly? Over.”

  “No, that was Sergeant Melissa Sandusky an Ohio girl, but if you remember her you must be her ex John.” Sandra said.

  “Oh crap, I’m sorry, I heard Sandra and figured… Wow small world. I remember you too. Over.”

  “Yeah, what can we help you with on Rebel Radio tonight John? Over.” Sandra asked and sat down next to Blake who was giving her an odd look.

  “Ghost of the past,” Sandra whispered to him waiting to hear his response.

  “Mostly looking for survivors, listening and gathering Intel. I imagine the NATO forces and ISIS bands are trying to find you all by Direction Finding. I can go scramble but I figure you all knew this already and are set up pretty good. Am I right? Over.” John asked.

  “Yes, it would take a full battalion to dig us out, maybe more. We broadcast on open frequencies for this to help folks out. Over.”

  “Well, maybe ya’ll can help me. Some folks I care about got snagged and are stuck at a FEMA camp. When I heard you call this Rebel Radio I had to call… Are there any rebels in the Anniston Alabama area you are in contact with? I’m going to change back to that frequency I first contacted you on and go to scramble, over.”

  “Well I’ll be.” Sandra stood up to let David get sit down.

  Blake stood up and motioned for his wife, but she shook her head and paced.

  “See if you can get him,” Sandra asked before wrapping her arms around Blake’s chest.

  “I do already, here.” David handed her the mic and turned up the volume a bit.

  “Sandra here, go ahead.”

  “They got my son’s best friend, and two little kids that were with us. Sandra, if you remember me, you know I won’t let this stand. They are in a FEMA camp near Anniston.”

  “I do remember you, you went after those guys in Afghanistan with Melissa. I heard they pushed you out and after that you went home. To answer your question, yes, we’ve heard about survivors all over the country. How bad is it? Over.”

  “I saw three squads for sure, armor and –“

  “Excuse me,” a cultured European voice broke into the transmission, “You would be talking about my camp would you?”

  “Who is this?” John’s voice said.

  “Commander Lukashenko, NATO liaison for this area of the gulf. If you’d like to be reunited with your friends, I can make those arrangements.” His voice was cold and he reminded Blake of a rattlesnake… deadly and unpredictable.

  “Comrade, how has the prison warden job treating you?” Another voice broke into the transmission, but the same sound of feedback as John.

  “Henrikas, I thought… Well, now I know you are still alive. We should –“

  “Next set in the lineup,” Sandra interrupted before working the radio herself and changing the frequency.

  They waited for long moments before they heard John’s voice come on.

  “I’m getting too old for this. Do you think he’ll figure out what frequency we’re on? Over.”

  “No,” Sandra said, pressing the transmit button, “Not right away. Check back within four hours. Skip the next two in the lineup and radio back in. Over.”

  “You’re going to make me do math, I hate math. Ok, four hours, skip the next two frequencies and do the third from this one. Thanks, and please…” John’s voice was strained.

  “We’ve got a lot of reach on this base unit, and we’ve got some active military working with us now. They are in contact with other guys. Let us network and I’ll have more info to give you a sitrep in four hours. Sound good? Over.”

  “Thank you. Too bad you aren’t Sandusky, I was going to rib Blake some, over.”

  “…Out,” She handed the mic back to David and stretched.

  “David, can you get Sgt Smith up here and set his communications guy loose rounding up all legitimate units stateside down by Alabama?”

  “No problem. What’s that stuff about next steps?” David asked.

  “Oh, it’s something we did. We’d take our channel or frequency and add a number to it to get the next one. It was totally random and I didn’t think John would remember the one we had used all that long ago,” Sandra said.

  “I thought you said Sandusky was a different lady?” Blake asked, confused.

  “She is, remember when I told you I was sometimes a door gunner?” She asked, realizing her husband was feeling a touch of Jealousy.

  “Yeah?”

  “It was to pull out John. He went UNORDER and did what he had to do.”

  “Un order?” Blake asked.

  “Unless Otherwise Directed, he ran his own Op to get back some villagers the Taliban had kidnapped. He left a trail of bodies all the way to the pickup po
int. I think he had a half a magazine left and his knife was bloody.”

  “What’s that have to do with Sandusky?” Blake asked.

  “Melissa was the one flying the chopper we stole,” Sandra said, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

  “You stole… Duncan!” Blake mock yelled and Sandra laughed, giving him a kiss.

  “Do you really think we can help him?” Blake asked her as they headed arm in arm towards the front porch.

  “Yes, I truly think we can. At least with information. Rebel radio, it really… really is a Rebel Radio station…”

  Chapter 8 -

  Talladega Federal Penitentiary & Temporary FEMA Camp, Alabama

  It wasn’t an hour into Michael’s new “job” that his hands ached. The work itself wasn’t difficult, but it was mind numbingly boring if his hands hadn’t hurt so badly. He was winding copper wire by hand on electrical motors. There were literal truckloads of materials for them to make. There was a trained “supervisor” every twenty feet of work table to make sure everyone was doing it right. He was cordial enough to Michael at first, but became increasingly belligerent as he urged Michael to work faster.

  “My hands hurt,” he mumbled when the supervisor had vented his spleen.

  “It is your patriotic duty to do your own part. Camps around the country are—“ The man almost spit and had an almost Germanic sounding accent.

  “I don’t even want to be here, now you are telling me I have to work to eat… I’m ok with that, but why not let us go and do our own thing—“

  Michael’s body shook as the taser darts hit his back. He fell off the bench he was sitting on and writhed on the floor until the guard that had come up behind him was satisfied. He pulled the wires out and reloaded the device and looked around.

  “There will be no talk of this. You all should be so happy to have a safe place to live, food to eat,” Commander Lukashenko said approaching the commotion, “Ah, my friend Michael. This is most unfortunate. Yosef, why was he disciplined?”

  “He was not fast enough and when I corrected him, he talked about leaving. We were told to not allow—“